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In Bohemia: 



BY 

JOHN BOYIvK O'RKIIvIvY. 



BOSTON: 
THE PILOT PUBLISHING CO. 

597 Washington Street. 






ripY. 



£fou I ;«?' 




,11 q 



\3 



Copyright, 188G, 
By John Boyle O'Reilly, 



Electrotyped and Printed by 

Cashman, Keating & Co. 

Fayette Court, 603 "Washington Street. 



mmm copy 



Co 
PiV iFour little Datitrl^tcrs. 



CONTENTS 



Page 

Songs That Aee Not Sung 9 

A Lost Fkiend 12 

In Bohemia 14 

A Teagedy 16 

Wendell Phillips 17 

The King's Evil 22 

A White Kose 24 

The Word and The Deed 25 

A Buildek's Lesson 27 

The Priceless Things 29 

A Dead Man 33 

Silence, Not Death 34 

The Unhappy One 36 

Ensign Epps, The Color-Bearer . . . . - . .41 

Grant — 1885 43 

The Cry of The Dreamer 45 

Ireland — 1882 47 

The Dead Singer 52 

Erin 55 

Poet and Lord 59 

A Year 60 

An Old Vagabond 61 

A Disappointment 64 

Yesterday and To-Morrow .65 

Yes? 66 

A Passage . . . . , 67 

Distance 69 

The City Streets 70 

The Three Queens 77 

Midnight — September 19, 1881 84 

America 88 



(5) 



IN BOHEMIA, 



IN BOHEMIA. 



SONGS THAT AEE NOT SUNG. 

Do not praise : a smile is payment more than meet 

for what is done ; 
Who shall paint the mote's glad raiment floating in 

the molten sun? 
Nay, nor smile : for blind is eyesight, ears may hear 

not, lips are dumb ; 
From the silence, from the twilight, wordless but 

complete they come. 

Songs were born l)efore the singer : like white souls 

awaiting birth, 
They abide the chosen bringer of their melody to 

earth. 

Deep the pain of our demerit : strmgs so rude or 

rudely strung, 
Dull to every pleading spirit seeking speech but 

sent unsung ; 



10 SONGS THAT ARE NOT SUXG. 

Eound our hearts with gentle breathing still the 

plaintive silence plays, 
But we brush away its wreathing, filled with cares 

of common days. 

Ever thinking of the morrow, burdened down with 

needs and creeds, 
Once or twice, mayhap, in sorrow, we may hear the 

song that pleads ; 
Once or twice, a dreaming poet sees the beauty as it 

flies. 
But his vision who shall know it, who shall read it 

from his eyes ? 
Voiceless he, — his necromancy fails to cage the 

wondrous bird ; 
Lure and snare are vain when fancy flies like echo 

from a word. 
Only sometime he may sing it, using speech as 

'twere a bell, 
Not to read the song l)ut ring it, like the sea-tone 

from a shell. 
Sometimes, too, it comes and lingers round the 

strings all still and mute. 
Till some lover's trembling fingers draw it living 

from the lute. 



SONGS THAT ARE NOT SUNG. 11 

Still, our best is but a vision which a lightning-flash 

illumes, 
Just a gleam of life elysian flung across the voiceless 

glooms. 

Why should gleams perplex and move us? Must 

the soul still upward grow 
To the beauty far above us and the songs no sense 

may know ? 



A LOST FKIEND. 

My friend he was ; my friend from all the rest ; 
With childlike faith he oped to me his breast ; 
No door was locked on altar, grave or grief; 
No weakness veiled, concealed no disbelief; 
The hope, the sorrow and the wrong were bare, 
And ah, the shadow only showed the fair. 

I gave him love for love ; but, deep within, 
I magnified each frailty into sin ; 
Each hill-topped foible in the sunset glowed, 
Obscuring vales where rivered virtues flowed. 
Eeproof became reproach, till common grew 
The captious word at every fault I knew. 
He smiled upon the censorship, and bore 
With patient love the touch that wounded sore ; 
Until at length, so had my blindness grown, 
He knew I judged him by his faults alone. 

Alone, of all men, I who knew him best. 
Refused the gold, to take the dross for test I 

(12) 



A LOST FEIEND. 13 

Cold strangers honored for the worth they saw ; 
His friend forgot the diamond in the flaw. 

At last it came — the day he stood apart, 
When from my eyes he proudly veiled his heart ; 
When carping judgment and uncertain word 
A stern resentment in his bosom stirred ; 
When in his face I read what I had been, 
And with his vision saw what he had seen. 

Too late ! too late ! Oh, could he then have known, 
When his love died, that mine had perfect grown ; 
That when the veil was drawn, abased, chastised, 
The censor stood, the lost one truly prized. 

Too late we learn — a man must hold his friend 
Unjudged, accepted, trusted to the end. 



IN BOHEMIA. 

I'd rather live in Bohemia than in any other land ; 

For only there are the values true, 

And the laurels gathered in all men's view. 

The prizes of traffic and state are won 

By shrewdness or force or by deeds undone ; 

But fame is sweeter without the feud, 

And the wise of Bohemia are never shrewd. 

Here, pilgrims stream with a faith sublime 

From every class and clime and time, 

Aspiring only to be enrolled 

With the names that are writ in the book of gold ; 

And each one bears in mind or hand 

A palm of the dear Bohemian land. 

The scholar first, with his book — a youth 

Aflame with the glory of harvested truth ; 

A girl with a picture, a man with a play, 

A boy with a wolf he has modeled in clay ; 

A smith with a marvellous hilt and sword j 

A player, a king, a ploughman, a lord — 

And the player is king when the door is past. 

The ploughman is crowned, and the lord is last ! 

(14) 



m BOHE3IIA. 15 

I'd rather fail in Bohemia than win in anotlier land ; 

There are no titles inherited there, 

Xo hoard or hope for the brainless heir ; 

No gilded dullard native born 

To stare at his fellow with leaden scorn : 

Bohemia has none but adopted sons ; 

Its limits, where Fancy's bright stream runs ; 

Its honors, not garnered for thrift or trade, 

But for beauty and truth men's souls have made. 

To the empty heart in a jeweled breast 

There is value^, maybe, in a purchased crest; 

But the thirsty of soul soon learn to know 

The moistureless froth of the social show ; 

The vulgar sham of the pompous feast 

Where the heaviest purse is the highest priest ; 

The organized charity, scrimped and iced. 

In the name of a cautious, statistical Christ ; 

The smilo restrained, the respectable cant, 

When a friend in need is a friend in want ; 

Where the only aim is to keep afloat, 

And a brother may drown with a cry in his throat. 

Oh, I long for the glow of a kindly heart and the 

grasp of a friendly hand, 
And I'd rather live in Bohemia than in any other land. 



A TRAGEDY. 

A soft-breasted bird from the sea 
Fell in love with the light-house flame ; 
And it wheeled round the tower on its airiest wing, 
And floated and cried like a lovelorn thing ; 
It brooded all day and it fluttered all night, 
But could win no look from the steadfast light. 

For the flame had its heart afar, — 
Afar with the ships at sea ; 
It was thinking of children and waiting wives, 
And darkness and danger to sailors' lives ; 
But the bird had its tender bosom pressed 
On the glass where at last it dashed its breast. 

The light only flickered, the brighter to glow; 

But the bird lay dead on the rocks below. 



(16) 



WENDELL PHILLIPS.* 

What shall we mourn ? For the prostrate tree that 

sheltered the joung green wood ? 
For the fallen cliff that fronted the sea, and guarded 

the fields from the flood ? 
For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar from its 

eyrie's brood? 

Xay, not for these shall we weep ; for the silver cord 

must be worn. 
And the golden fillet shrink back at last, and the 

dust to its earth return ; 
And tears are never for those who die with their face 

to the duty done ; 
But we mourn for the fledglings left on the waste, 

and the fields where the wild waves run. 

From the midst of the flock he defended, the brave 

one has gone to his rest ; 
And the tears of the poor he befriended their wealth 

of affliction attest. 

* Died Saturday, Feb. 2, 1884, 
(17) 



18 WENDELL THILLIPS. 

From the midst of the people is stricken a symbol 

they daily saw, 
Set over against the law books, of a Higher than 

Human Law ; 
For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his voice 

was a prophet's cry 
To be true to the Truth and faithful, though the 

world were arrayed for the Lie. 

From the hearing of those who hated, a threatening 

voice has past ; 
But the lives of those who believe and die are not 

blown like a leaf on the blast. 
A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that 

hewed toward the light, 
Wlio dared to be traitor to Union when Union was 

traitor to Eight ! 

"Fanatic!" the insects hissed, till he taught them 
to understand 

That the highest crime may be written in the high- 
est law of the land. 

*' Disturber" and '* Dreamer" the Philistines cried 
when he preached an ideal creed, 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 19 

Till they learned that the men who have changed the 
world with the world have disagreed ; 

That the remnant is right, when the masses are led 
like sheep to the pen ; 

For the instinct of equity slumbers till roused by 
instinctive men. 

It is not enough to win rights from a king and write 

them down in a book. 
New men, new lights ; and the fiithers' code the sons 

may never brook. 
What is liberty now were license then : their freedom 

our yoke would be ; 
And each new decade must have new men to deter- 
mine its liberty. 
Mankind is a marching army, with a broadening front 

the while : 
Shall it crowd its bulk on the farm-paths, or clear 

to the outward file ? 
Its pioneers are the dreamers who fear neither tongue 

nor pen 
Of the human spiders whose silk is wove fi'om tho 

lives of toilino: men. 



20 WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

Come, brothers, here to the burial I But weep not, 

rather rejoice, 
For his fearless life and his fearless death ; for his 

true, unequalled voice, 
Like a silver trumpet sounding the note of human 

right ; 
For his brave heart always ready to enter the weak 

one's fight ; 
For his soul unmoved by the mob's wild shout or 

the social sneer's disgrace ; 
For his freeborn spirit that drew no line between 

class or creed or race. 



Come, workers ; here was a teacher, and the lesson 
he taught was good : 

There are no classes or races, but one human broth- 
erhood ; 

There are no creeds to be outlawed, no colors of skin 
debarred ; 

Mankind is one in its rights and wrongs — one right, 
one hope, one guard. 

By his life he taught, by his death we learn the 
great reformer's creed : 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 21 

The right to be free, and the hope to be just, and 

the o'uard ao-ainst selfish gfreed. 
And richest of all are the unseen wreaths on his 

coffin-lid laid down 
By the toil-stained hands of workmen — their sob, 

their kiss, and their crown. 



THE KING^S EYIL. 

They brought them up from their huts in the fens, 

The woful sufferers gaunt and grim ; 
They flocked from the city's noisome dens 

To the Monarch's throne to be touched by him. 
"For his touch," they whisper, ''is sovereign balm. 

The anointed King has a power to heal." 
Oh, the piteous prayers as the royal palm 

Is laid on their necks while they humbly kneel ! 



Blind hope ! But the cruel and cold deceit 

A rich reward to the palace brings ; 
A snare for the untaught People's feet, 

And a courtier's lie for the good of Kings. 
But the years are sands, and they slip away 

Till the baseless wall in the sun lies bare ; 
The touch of the King has no balm to-day. 

And the Eight Divine is the People's share. 



(22) 



23 

The word remains : but the Evil now 

Is caused, not cured, by imperial hands, — 
The lightless soul and the narrow brow, 

The servile millions in armed bands ; 
The sweat-wrung gold from the peasant's toil 

Flung merrily out by the gambling lord, 
Who is reckless owner of serf and soil. 

And master of church and law and sword. 

But the night has receded : the dawn like a tide 

Creeps slow round the world, till the feet of the 
throne 
Are lapped by the waves that shall seethe and ride 

Where the titles are gulfed and the shields over- 
blown. 
Our Kings are the same as the Kings of old, 

But a Man stands up where there crouched a clown ; 
The Evil shall die when his hand grows bold. 

And the touch of the People is laid on the Crown ' 



A WHITE ROSE. 

The red rose whispers of passion, 
And the white rose breathes of love ; 

Oh, the red rose is a falcon. 
And the white rose is a dove. 



But I send you a cream-white rosebud 
With a flu>sh on its petal tips ; 

For the love that is purest and sweetest 
Has a kiss of desire on the lips. 



(24) 



THE WOKD AXD THE DEED. 

The Word was first, sajs the revelation : 

Justice is older than error or strife ; 
The Word preceded the Incarnation 

As symbol and type of law and life. 
And always so are the mighty changes : 

The Word must be sown in the heart like seed ; 
Men's hands must tend it, their lives defend it, 

Till it burst into flower as a deathless Deed. 



The primal truth neither dies nor slumbers, 

But lives as the test of the common right, 
That the laws proclaimed by the sworded numbers 

May stand arraigned in the people's sight. 
The Word is great, and no Deed is greater, 

When both are of God, to follow or lead ; 
But, alas, for the truth when the Word comes later, 

With questioned steps, to sustain the Deed. 



(25) 



2G THE WORD AXD THE DEED. 

Not the noblest acts can be true solutions ; 

The soul must be sated before the eye, 
Else the passionate glory of revolutions 

Shall pass like the flames that flash and die. 
But forever the gain when the heart's convictions, 

Rooted in nature the masses lead ; 
The cries of rebellion are benedictions 

When the Word has flowered in a perfect Deed. 



A BUILDEK'S LESSOX. 

''How shall I a habit break?" 

As you did that habit make. 

As you gathered, you must lose ; 

As you yielded, now refuse. 

Thread by thread the strands we twist 

Till they bind us neck and wrist ; 

Thread by thread the patient hand 

Must untwine ere free we stand. 

As we builded, stone by stone, 

We must toil unhelped, alone, 

Till the wall is overthrown. 

But remember, as we try, 
Lighter every test goes by ; 
Wading in, the stream grows deep 
Toward the centre's downward sweep ; 
Backward turn, each step ashore 
Shallower is than that before. 

(27) 



2S A builder's lessox. 

Ah, the precious years we waste 
Levelling what we raised in haste ; 
Doing what must be undone 
Ere content or love be won ! 
First across the gulf we cast 
Kite-borne threads, till lines are passed. 
And habit builds the brids^e at last ! 



THE PRICELESS THINGS. 

Those are vulgar things we pay for, be they stones 

for crowns of kmgs ; 
While the precious and the peerless are unpriced 

symbolic things. 

Common debts are scored and cancelled, weighed 

and measured out for gold ; 
But the debts from men to ages, their account is 

never told. 

Always see, the noblest nations keep their highest 

prize unknown ; 
Chaeronea's deathless lion frowned above unlettered 

stone. 

Ah, the Greeks knew ! Come their victors honored 

frona the sacred games, 
Under arches red with roses, flushed to hear their 

shouted names ; 

(29) 



30 THE PRICELESS TPIINGS. 

See their native cities take them, breach the wall to 

make a gate ! 
What supreme reward is theirs who bring such 

honors to their state ? 

In the forum stand they proudly, taK:e their prizes 

from the priest : 
Little wreaths of pine and parsley on their naked 

temples pressed ! 

We in later days are lower ? When a manful stroKe 

is made, 
We must raise a purse to pay it — making manliness 

a trade. 



Sacrifice itself grows venal — surely Midas will sub- 
scribe ; 

And the shallow souls are gratified when worth 
accepts the bribe. 

But e'en here, amidst the markets, there are things 

they dare not prize ; 
Dollars hide their sordid faces when they meet 

anointed eyes. 



THE PRICELESS THINGS. 31 

Lovers do not speak with jewels — flowers alone can 

plead for them ; 
And one fragrant memory cherished is far dearer 

than a gem. 

Statesmen steer the nation safely ; artists pass the 

burning test ; 
And their country pays them proudly with a ribbon 

at the breast. 

^Yhen the soldier saves the battle, wraps the flag 

around his heart, 
Who shall desecrate his honor with the values of 

the mart ? 

From his guns of bronze we hew a piece, and carve 

it as a cross ; 
For the gain he gave was priceless, as unpriced 

would be the loss. 

When the poet sings the love-song, or the song of 

life and death. 
Till the workers cease their toiling with abated 

wondering breath ; 



32 THE PRICELESS THINGS, 

When he gilds the mill and mine, inspires the slave 

to rise and dare ; 
Lights with love the cheerless garret, bids the tyrant 

to beware ; 

When he steals the pang from poverty with mean- 
ings new and clear, 

Eeconciling pain and peace, and bringing blissful 
visions near ; — 

His reward? Nor cross nor ribbon, but all others 

high above ; 
They have won their glittering symbols — he has 

earned the people's love ! 



A DEAD MAN. 

The Trapper died — our hero — and we grieved ; 

In every heart in camp the sorrow stirred. 
*'His soul was red ! " the Indian cried, bereaved ; 

*'A white man, he !" the grim old Yankee's word. 

So, brief and strong, each mourner gave his best — 
How kind he was, how brave, how keen to track ; 

And as we laid him by the pines to rest, 

A negro spoke, with tears : ' ' His heart was black !" 



(33) 



SILENCE, NOT DEATH. 

I start ! I have slept for a moment ; 

I have dreamt, sitting here by her chair — 
Oh, how lonely ! What was it that touched me ? 

What presence, what heaven-sent air? 

It was nothing, you say. But I tremble ; 

I heard her, I knew she was near — 
Felt her breath, felt her cheek on my forehead — 

Awake or asleep, she was here ! 

It was nothing — a dream ? Strike that harp-string ; 

Again — still again — till it cries 
In its uttermost treble — still strike it — 

Ha ? vibrant but silent ! It dies — 

It dies, just as she died. Go, listen — 

That highest vibration is dumb. 
Your sense, friend, too soon finds a limit 

And answer, when mysteries come. 

(34) 



SILENCE, NOT DEATH. 35 

Truth speaks in the senseless, the sph'it ; 

But here in this palpable part 
We sound the low notes, but are silent 

To music sublimed in the heart. 

Too few and too gross our dull senses, 
And clogged with the mire of the road, 

Till we loathe their coarse bondage ; as seabirds 
Encaged on a cliff, look abroad 

On the ocean and limitless heaven. 

Alight with the beautiful stars, 
And hear what they say, not the creakings 

That rise from our sensual bars. 

O life, let me dream, let her presence 
Be near me, her fragrance, her breath ; 

Let me sleep, if in slumber the seeking; 
Sleep on, if the finding be death. 



THE UNHAPPY ONE. 

*'He is false to the heart!" she said, stern-lipped; 

"he is all untruth ; 
He promises fair as a tree in blossom, and then 
The fruit is rotten ere ripe. Tears, prayers and 

youth, 
All withered and wasted ! and still — I love this 

falsest of men ! " 

Comfort ? There is no comfort when the soul sees 
pain like a sun : 

It is better to stare- at the blinding truth : if it blind, 
one woe is done. 

We cling to a coward hope, when hope has the seed 
of the pain : 

If we tear out the roots of the grief, it will never 
torment again. 

Ay, even if part of our life is lost, and the deep- 
laid nerves 

(36) 



THE UNHAPPY ONE. 37 

That cany all joy to the heart are wounded or killed 
by the knife ; 

When a gangrene sinks to the bone, it is only half- 
death that serves ; 

And a life with a cureless pain is only half a life. 

But why unhealed must the spirit endure ? There 

are drugs for the body's dole ; 
Have we wholly lived for the lower life ? Is there 

never a balm for the soul ? 
O Night, cry out for the healer of woe, for the 

priest-physician cry, 
With the pouring oil for the bleeding grief, for the 

life that may not die ! 

<'He is false to the heart!" she moaned ; *'andl 

love him and cannot hate ! " 
Then bitterly, fiercely — "What have I done, my 

God, for such a fate?" 

"Poor heart ! " said the Teacher ; "for thee and thy 

sorrow the daily parables speak. 
Thy grief, that is dark, illumes for me a sign that 

was dim and weak. 



38 THE IINTIAPPY ONE. 

In the heart of my garden I planted a tree — I had 

chosen the noblest shoot : 
It was sheltered and tended, and hope reached out 

for the future's precious fruit. 
The years of its youth flew past, and I looked on a 

spreading tree 
All gloried with maiden blossoms, that smiled their 

promise to me. 
I lingered to gaze on their color and shape — I knew 

I had chosen well ; 
And I smiled at the death that was promise of life 

as the beautiful petals fell. 
But the joy was chilled, though the lip laughed on, 

by the withered proof to the eye : 
The blossoms had shielded no tender bud, but 

cradled a barren lie. 
Before me it lay, the mystery — the asking, the 

promise, the stone ; 
The tree that should give good fruit was bare — the 

cause unseen, unknown ! 

But I said : Xext year it shall burgeon, my part 

shall be ftiithfully done ; 
My love shall be doubled — I trust my tree for its 

beautiful strength alone. 



THE UNHAPPY ONE. 39 

But tenderness failed, and loving care, and the chalice 

of faith was dried 
When the next Spring blossoms had spoken their 

promise — smiled at the sun and lied ; 
The heart of the petals was withered to dust. Then, 

for duty, I trusted again ; 
For who should stand if God were to frown on the 

twice-told failures of men ? 
Unloving I tended, with care increased, but never a 

song or smile ; 
For duty is love that is dead but is kept from the 

grave for a while. 

The third year came, with the sweet young leaves, 

and I could not fear or doubt ; 
But the petals smiled at the sun and lied, — and the 

curse in my blood leaped out ! 
*'This corpse," I cried, **that has cumbered the 

earth, let it hence to the waste be torn ! " 
That moment of wrath beheld its death — while to 

me was a life-truth born : 
The straight young trunk at my feet lay prone ; 

and I bent to scan the core. 
And there read the pitiful secret the noble sapling 

bore. 



40 THE UXHAPPY ONE. 

Through the heart of the pith, in its softest youth, 

it had bored its secret way, 
A gnawing worm, a hideous grief, — and the life it 

had tortured lay 
Accursed and lost for the cruel devil that nestled its 

breast within. 
Ah, me, poor heart ! had I known in time, I had cut 

out the clinging sin. 
And saved the life that was all as good and as noble 

as it seemed ! " 



He ceased, and she rose, the unresigned, as one who 

had slept and dreamed ; 
Her face was radiant with insight : " It is true ! it is 

true ! " she said ; 
*'And my love shall not die, like your beautiful tree, 

till the hidden pain is dead ! " 



ENSIGN EPPS, THE COLOR-BEARER. 

Ensign Epps, at the battle of Flanders, 
Sowed a seed of glory and duty 
That flowers and flames in height and beauty 
Like a crimson lily with heart of gold, 
To-day, when the wars of Ghent are old 
And buried as deep as their dead commanders. 

Ensign Epps was the color-bearer, — 

No matter on which side, Philip or Earl ; 

Their cause was the shell — his deed was the pearl. 

Scarce more than a lad, he had been a sharer 

That day in the Vvdldest work of the field. 

He was wounded and spent, and the fight was lost ; 

His comrades were slain, or a scattered host. 

But stainless and scatheless, out of the strife, 

He had carried his colors safer than life. 

By the river's brink, without weapon or shield, 

He faced the victors. The thick-heart mist 

(41) 



42 ENSIGN EPPS, TPIE COLOR-BEARER. 

He dashed from his ejes, and the silk he kissed 

Ere he held it aloft in the setting sun, 

As proudly as if the fight were won, 

And he smiled when they ordered him to yield. 

Ensign Epps, with his broken blade. 

Cut the silk from the gilded staff. 

Which he poised like a spear till the charge was 

made, 
And hurled at the leader with a laugh. 
Then round his breast, like the scarf of his love, 
He tied the colors his heart above. 
And plunged in his armor into the tide. 
And there, in his dress of honor, died. 

T\Tiere are the lessons your kinglings teach ? 

And what is text of your proud commanders ? 

Out of the centuries, heroes reach 

With the scroll of a deed, with the word of a story, 

Of one man's truth and of all men's glory. 

Like Ensign Epps at the battle of Flanders. 



GRANT — 1885. 

Blessed are Pain, the smiter, 
And Sorrow, the uniter ! 
For one afflicted lies — 
A symboled sacrifice — 
And all our rancor dies ! 

"No North, no South ! O stern-faced Chief, 
One weeping ours, one cowled Grief — 
Thy Country — bowed in prayer and tear — 
For North and South — above thy bier ! 

For North and South ! Soldier grim. 

The broken ones to weep for him 

Who broke them ! He whose terrors blazed 

In smoking harvests, cities razed ; 

Whose Fate-like glance sent fear and chill ; 

Whose wordless lips spake deathless will — 

Till all was shattered, all was lost — 

(43) 



44 GEAXT. 

All hands dropped down — all War's red cost 
Laid there in ashes — Hope and Hate 
And Shame and Glory ! 

Death and Fate 
Fall back ! Another touch is thine ; 
He drank not of th}^ poisoned wine, 
iNor blindly met thy blind-thrown lance, 
Nor died for sightless time or chance — 
But waited, suffered, bowed and tried, 
Till all the dross was purified ; 
Till every well of hate was dried ; 
And Xorth and South in sorrow vied, 
And then — at God's own calling — - died I 

July 23, 1885. 



THE CRY OF THE DREAMER. 

I am tired of planning and toiling 

In the crowded hives of men ; 
Heart-weary of building and spoiling, 

And spoiling and building again. 
And I long for the dear old river, 

Where I dreamed my youth aw^ay ; 
For a dreamer lives forever. 

And a toiler dies in a day. 

I am sick of the showy seeming 

Of a life that is half a lie ; 
Of the faces lined with scheming 

In the throng that hurries by. 
From the sleepless thoughts' endeavor, 

I would go where the children play ; 
For a dreamer lives forever. 

And a thinker dies in a day. 

(-15) 



46 THE CllY OF THE DREAMER. 

I can feel no pride, but pity 

For the burdens the rich endure ; 
There is nothing sweet in the city 

But the patient lives of the poor. 
Oh, the little hands too skilful, 

And the child-mind choked with weeds ! 
The daughter's heart grown wilful. 

And the Other's heart that bleeds ! 



No, no ! from the street's rude l)ustle, 

From trophies of mart and stage, 
I would fly to the woods' low rustle 

And the meadows' kindly page. 
Let me dream as of old by the river, 

And be loved for the dream alway ; 
For a dreamer lives forever. 

And a toiler dies in a day. 



IKELAND — 1882. 

* ' Island of Destiny ! Innisfail ! " they cried when 

their weary eyes 
First looked on thy beauteous bosom from the 

amorous ocean rise. 

'* Island of Destiny ! Innisfail !" we cry, dear land, 
to thee. 

As the sun of thy future rises and reddens the west- 
ern sea ! 

Pregnant as earth with its gold and gems and its 

metals strong and fine. 
Is thy soul with its ardors and fancies and sympathies 

divine. 

Mustard seed of the nations ! they scattered thy 

leaves to the air, 
But the ravisher pales at the harvest that flourishes 

everywhere. 

(47) 



48 IRELAND. 

Queen in the right of thy courage ! manacled, scourged, 

defamed, 
Thy voice in the teeth of the bayonets the right of a 

race proclaimed. 

"Bah!" they sneered from their battlements, "her 

people cannot unite ; 
They are sands of the sea, that break before the rush 

of our ordered might ! " 

And wherever the flag of the pirate flew, the Eng- 
lish slur was heard. 

And the shallow of soul re-echoed the boast of the 
taunting word. 

But we — O sun, that of old was our god, we look 

in thy face to-day, 
As our Druids who prayed in the ancient time, and 

with them we proudly say : • 

"We have wronged no race, we have robbed no land, 
we have never oppressed the weak ! " 

And this in the face of Heaven is the nobler thing 
to speak. 



IRELAND. 49 

We can never unite — thank God for that ! in such 

unity as yours, 
That strangles the rights of others, and only itself 

endures 

As the guard of a l)loodstained spoil and the red- 

eyed watch of the slave ; 
No need for such robber-union to a race free-souled 

and brave. 

The races that band for plunder are the mud of the 

human stream, 
The base and the coward and sordid, without an 

unselfish gleam. 

It is mud that unites ; but the sand is free — ay, 

every grain is free, 
And the freedom of individual men is the highest oi 

liberty. 

It is mud that coheres ; but the sand is free, till the 

lightning smite the shore, 
And smelt the giains to a crystal mass, to return to 

sand no more. 



50 IRELAND. 

And so with the grains of our Irish sand, that flash 

clear-eyed to the sun, 
Till a noble Purpose smites them and melts them 

into one. 

While the sands are free, O Tyrants ! like the wind 

are your steel and speech ; 
Your brute-force crushes a legion, but a soul it can 

never reach. 



Island of Destiny ! Innisfail ! for thy faith is the 

payment near : 
The mine of the future is opened, and the golden 

veins appear. 

Thy hands are white and thy page unstained. Reach 

out for the sjlorious vears, 
And take them from God as His recompense for thy 

fortitude and tears. 

Thou canst stand by the way ascending, as thy 

tyrant goes to the base : 
The seeds of her death are in her and the signs in 

her cruel face. 



IRELAND. 51 

On her darkened path lie the corpses of men, with 

whose blood her feet are red ; 
And the curses of ruined nations are a cloud above 

her head. 

O Erin, fresh in the latest day, like a gem from a 

Syrian tomb, 
The burial clay of the centuries has saved thy light 

in the gloom. 

Thy hands may stretch to a kindred world : there is 

none that hates but one ; 
And she but hates as a pretext for the rapine she 

has done. 



The night of thy grief is closing, and the sky in the 

East is red : 
Thy children watch from the mountain-tops for the 

sun to kiss thv head. 



O Mother of men that are fit to be free, for their 

test for freedom borne. 
Thy vacant place in the Nations' race awaits but the 



THE DEAD SINGER. 

' ' She is dead I " they say ; ' ' she is robed for the 

grave ; there are lilies upon her breast ; 
Her mother has kissed her clay-cold lips, and folded 

her hands to rest ; 
Her blue eyes show through the waxen lids : they 

have hidden her hair's gold crown ; 
Her grave is dug, and its heap of earth is waiting to 

press her down." 

"She is dead !" they say to the people, her people, 

for whom she sung ; 
Whose hearts she touched with sorrow and love, 

like a harp with life-chords strung. 
And the people hear — but behind their tear they 

smile as though they heard 
Another voice, like a Mystery, proclaim another 

word. 

(52) 



THE DEAD SINGER. 53 

'*She is not dead," it says to their hearts; "true 

Singers can never die ; 
Their life is a voice of higher things unseen to the 

common eye ; 
The truths and the beauties are clear to them, God's 

right and the human wrong. 
The heroes who die unknown, and the weak who 

are chained and scourged by the strong." 
And the people smile at the death-word, for the 

mystic voice is clear : 
* ' The Singer who lived is always alive : we 

hearken and alavays hear ! " 



And they raise her body with tender hands, and 

bear her down to the main. 
They lay her in state on the mourning ship, like the 

lily-maid Elaine ; 
And they sail to her isle across the sea, where the 

people wait on the shore 
To lift her in silence with heads all bare to her home 

forevermore. 
Her home in the heart of her country ; oh, a grave 

amono' our own 

o 

Is warmer and dearer than livinc; on in the strani^ei 
lands alone c 



54 THE DEAD SIXGER. 

No need of a tomb for the Singer ! Her fair hair's 

pillow now 
Is the sacred clay of her country, and the sky above 

her brow 
Is the same that smiled and wept on her youth, and 

the grass around is deep 
With the clinging leaves of the shamrock that cover 

her peaceful sleep. 

Undreaming there she will rest and wait, in the tomb 

her people make, 
Till she hears men's hearts, like the seeds in Spring, 

all stirring to be awake, 
Till she feels the moving of souls that strain till the 

bands around them break ; 
And then, I think, her dead lips will smile and her 

eyes be oped to see. 
When the cry goes out to the Nations that the 

Singer's land is free ! 



ERIN. 

**Come, sing a new song to her here while we 
listen!" 

They cry to her sons who sing ; 
And one sings: '■'Mavourneen, it makes the eyes 
glisten 

To think how the sorrows cling, 
Like the clouds on your mountains, wreathing 

Their green to a weeping gray ! " 
And the bard with his passionate breathing 

Has no other sweet word to say. 



*'Come sing a new song!" and their eyes, while 
they're speaking, 
Are dreaming of far-off things ; 
And their hearts are away for the old words 
seeking, 
^ Unheeding of him who sings. 

(55) 



56 EEIN. 

But he smiles and sings on, for the sound so 
slender 

Has reached the deep note he knows ; 
And the heart-poem stirred by the word so tender 

Out from the well-spring flows. 

And he says in his song : * ' O dhar dheelish ! the 
tearful ! 
She's ready to laugh when she cries ! " 
And they sob when they hear : ' ' Sure she's sad 
when she's cheerful ; 
And she smiles with the tears in her eyes ! " 

And he asks them : What need of new poets to praise 
her? 
Her harpers still sing in the past ; 
And her first sweet old melodies comfort and raise 
her 
To joys never reached by her last. 

What need of new hero, with Brian? or preacher, 
With Patrick ? or soldier, with Conn ? 

With her dark Ollamh Fohla, what need of a teacher, 
Sage, ruler, and builder in one? 



ERIN. 5 i 

What need of new lovers, -with Deirdre and Imer ? 

With Avonders and visions and elves 
Sure no need at all has romancer or rhymer, 

When the fairies belong to ourselves. 



What need of new tongues? O, the Gaelic is clear- 
est, 

Like Nature's own voice every word ; 
^'Ahagur! Acushlaf Savourneen!" the dearest 

The ear of a girl ever heard. 



They may talk of new causes ! Dliar DJiial our old 
one 

Is fresher than ever to-day ; 
Like Erin's green sod that is steaming to God 

The blood it has drunl^ in the fray. 



They have scattered her seed, with her blood and 
hate in it, 
And the harvest has come to her here ; 
Her crown still remains for the strong heart to 
win it. 
And the hour of acceptance is near. 



58 ERIN. 

Through ages of warfare and famine and prison 
Her voice and her spirit were free : 

But the lono-est ni^-ht ends, and her name has 
uprisen : 
The Sunburst is red on the sea ! 



What need of new songs? When his country is 
singing, 
What word has the Poet to say, 
But to drink her a toast while the joy-l3ells are 
rinofinsf 
The dawn of her opening da}^? 
* ' O Bride of the Sea ! may the world know your 
laughter 
As well as it knows your tears ! 
As your past was for Freedom, so l)e your hereafter ; 

And through all your coming years 
May no weak race be wronged, and no strong robber 

feared ; 
To oppressors gTow hateful, to slaves more endeared ; 
Till the world comes to know that the test of a 

cause 
Is the hatred of tyrants, and Erin's applause !" 



POET AND LORD. 

God makes a poet : touches soul and sight, 

And lips and heart, and sends him forth to sing ; 

His fellows hearing, own the true birthright, 
And crown him daily with the love they bring. 

The king a lord makes, by a parchment leaf; 

Thou«:h heart be withered, and thou2:h si2:ht be 
dim 
With dullard brain and soul of disbelief — 

Ay, even so ; he makes a lord of him. 

What, then, of one divinely kissed and sent 

To fill the people with ideal words. 
Who with his poet's crown is discontent. 

And begs a parchment title with the lords ? 



(59) 



A YEAK. 

In the Spring we see : 

Then the buds are dear to us — immature bosoms 

like lilies swell. 
In the Summer we live ; 
When bright eyes are near to us, oh, the sweet 

stories the false lips tell I 
In the Autumn we love : 
When the honey is dripping, deep eyes moisten and 

soft breasts heave ; 
In the Winter we think : 
With the sands fast slipping, we smile and sigh for 

the days we leave. 



(60) 



AN OLD VAGABOND. 

He was old and alone, and he sat on a stone to rest 

for awhile from the road ; 
His beard was white, and his eye was bright, and his 

wrinkles overflowed 
With a mild content at the way life went ; and I 

closed the book on my knee : 
*'I will venture a look in this living book," I 

thought, as he greeted me. 

And I said : "My friend, have you time to spend to 

tell me what makes you glad ? " 
*' Oh, ay, my lad," with a smile ; ** I'm glad that I'm 

old, yet am never sad I" 

* ' But why ? " said I ; and his merry eye made an- 
swer as much as his tongue ; 

*' Because," said he, "I am poor and free who was 
rich and a slave when young. 

(61) 



62 AN OLD VAGABOND. 

There is naught but age can allay the rage of tho 
passions that rule men's lives ; 

And a man to be free must a poor man be, for un- 
happy is he who thrives : 

He fears for his ventures, his rents and debentures, 
his crops, and his son, and his wife ; 

His dignity's slighted when he's not invited ; he 
fears every day of his life. 

But the man who is poor, and by age has grown 
sure that there are no surprises in years, 

"Who knows that to have is no joy, nor to save, and 
who opens his eyes and his ears 

To the world as it is, and the part of it his, and 
who says : They are happy, these birds. 

Yet they live day by day in improvident way — im- 
provident ? What were the words 

Of the Teacher who taught that the field-lilies 
brought the lesson of life to a man ? 

Can we better the thing that is schoolless, or sing 
more of love than the nightingale can ? 

See that rabbit — what feature in that pretty creat- 
ure needs science or culture or care ? 

Send this dog to a college and stuff him with 
knowledge, will it add to the warmth of 
his hair? 



AN OLD VAGABOND. 63 

Why should mankind, apart, turn from Xature to 

Art, and declare the exchange better-planned ? 
I prefer to trust God for my living than plod for my 

bread at a master's hand. 
A man's higher being is knowing and seeing, not 

having and toiling for more ; 
In the senses and soul is the joy of control, not in 

pride or luxurious store. 
Yet my needs are the same as the kingling's whose 

name is a terror to thousands : some bread, 
Some water and milk, — I can do without silk, — 

some wool, and a roof for my head. 
What more is possest that will stand the grim test 

of death's verdict ? What riches remain 
To give joy at the last, all the vanities past? — Ay, 

ay, that's the word — they are vain 
And vexatious of spirit to all who inherit belief in 

the world and its ways. 
And so, old and alone, sitting here on a stone, I 

smile with the birds at the days." 

And I thanked him, and went to my study, head 
bent, where I laid down my book on its shelf; 

And that day all the page that I read was my age, 
and my wants, and my joys, and myself. 



A DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Her hair was a waving bronze, and her eyes 
Deep wells that might cover a brooding soul ; 

And who, till he weighed it, could ever surmise 
That her heart was a cinder instead of a coal ! 



(64) 



YESTERDAY AND TO-MOREOW. 

Joys have three stages, Hoping, Having, and 

Had: 
The hands of Hope are empty, and the heart of 

Having is sad ; 
For the joy we take, in the taking dies ; and the joy 

we Had is its ghost. 
Now, which is the better — the joy unknown or 

the joy we have chisped and lost ? 



(65) 



YES? 

The words of the lips are double or single, 

True or false, as we say or sing : 
But the words of the eyes that mix and mingle 

Are always saying the same old thing I' 



(66) 



A PASSAGE. 

The world was made when a man was born ; 
He must taste for himself the forbidden springs, 
He can never take warning from old-fashioned 

things ; 
He must fight as a boy, he must drink as a youth, 
He must kiss, he must love, he must swear to the 

truth 
Of the friend of his soul, he must laugh to scorn 
The hint of deceit in a woman's eyes 
That are clear as the wells of Paradise. 
And so he goes on, till the world grows old, 
Till his tono:ue has 2:rown cautious, his heart has 

grown cold. 
Till the smile leaves his mouth, and the ring leaves 

his laugh. 

And he shirks the bright headache you ask him to 

quaff; 

(67) 



68 A PASSAGE. 

He grows formal with men, and with women polite, 
And distrustful of both when they're out of his 

sight ; 
Then he eats for his palate, and drinks for his head. 
And loves for his pleasure, — and 'tis time he was 

dead ! 



DISTAXCE. 

The world is large, when its weary leagues two lov- 
ing hearts divide ; 

But the world is small, when your enemy is loo.«e 
on the other side. 



THE CITY STREETS. 

A City of Palaces ! Yes, that's true : a city of 

palaces built for trade ; 
Look down this street — what a splendid view of 

the temples where fabulous gains are made. 
Just glance at the wealth of a single pile, the marble 

pillars, the miles of glass, 
The carving and cornice in gaudy style, the massive 

show of the polished brass ; 
And think of the acres of inner floors, where the 

wealth of the world is spread for sale ; 
Why, the treasures enclosed by those ponderous 

doors are richer than ever a fairy tale. 
Pass on to the next, it is still the same, another 

Aladdin the scene repeats ; 
The silks are unrolled and the jewels flame for 

leagues and leagues of the city streets ! 

(70) 



THE CITY STREETS. 71 

Now turn away from the teeming town, and pass to 

the homes of the merchant kings, 
Wide squares where the stately porches frown, 

where the flowers are bright and the foun- 
tain sings ; 
Look up at the lights in that brilliant room, with its 

chandelier of a hundred flames ! 
See the carpeted street where the ladies come whose 

husbands have millions or famous names ; 
For whom are the jewels and silks, behold : on 

those exquisite bosoms and throats they 

burn ; 
Art challenges Nature in color and gold and the 

gracious presence of every turn. 
So the Winters fly past in a joyous rout, and the 

Summers bring marvellous cool retreats ; 
These are civilized wonders we're findino^ out as we 

walk through the beautiful city streets. 



A City of Palaces ! Hush ! not quite : a city 

where palaces are, is best ; 
No need to speak of what's out of sight : let us take 

what is pleasant, and leave the rest : 



72 THE CITY STREETS. 

The men of the city who travel and write, whose 

fame and credit are known abroad, 
The people who move in the ranks polite, the 

cultured women whom all applaud. 
It is true, there are only ten thousand here, but the 

other half million are vulgar clod ; 
And a soul well-bred is eternally dear — it counts so 

much more on the books of God. 
The others have use in their place, no doubt; but 

why speak of a class one never meets ? 
They are gloomy things to be talked about, those 

common lives of the city streets. 

Well, then, if you will, let us look at both : let us 
weigh the pleasure against the pain, 

The gentleman's smile with the bar-room oath, the 
luminous square with the tenement lane. 

Look round you now ; 'tis another sphere, of thin- 
clad women and grimy men ; 

There are over ten thousand huddled here, where a 
hundred would live of our upper ten. 

Take care of that child : here, look at her face, a 
baby who carries a bal^y brother ; 

They are early helpers in this poor place, and the 
infant must often nurse the mother. 



THE ClXr STREETS. 73 

Come up those stairs where the little ones went : five 

flights they groped and climbed in the dark ; 
There are dozens of homes on the steep ascent, and 

homes that are filled with children — hark ! 
Did you hear tliat laugh, with its manly tones, and 

the joyous ring of the baby voice? 
'Tis the father who gathers his little ones, the nurse 

and her brother, and all rejoice. 
Yes, human nature is much the same when you 

come to the heart and count its beats ; 
The workman is proud of his home's dear name as 

the richest man on the city streets. 

God pity them all ! God pity the worst ! for the 

worst are reckless, and need it most : 
When we trace the causes why lives are curst with 

the criminal taint, let no man boast : 
The race is not run with an equal chance : the poor 

man's son carries double weight ; 
Who have not, are tempted ; inheritance is a blight 

or a blessing of man's estate. 
No matter that poor men sometimes sweep the prize 

from the sons of the millionnaire : 
What is good to win must be good to keep, else the 

virtue dies on the topmost stair ; 



74 THE CITY STREETS. 

When the winners can keep their golden prize, still 

darker the day of the laboring poor : 
The strong and the selfish are sure to rise, while 

the simple and generous die obscure. 
And these are the virtues and social gifts by which 

Progress and Property rank over Man ! 
Look there, O woe I Avhere a lost soul drifts on the 

stream where such virtues overran : 
Stand close — let her pass ! from a tenement room 

and a reeking workshop graduate : 
If a man were to break the iron loom or the press 

she tended, he knows his fate ; 
But her life may be broken, she stands alone, her 

poverty stings, and her guideless feet, 
Not long since kissed as a father's own, are dragged 

in the mire of the pitiless street. 

Come back to the light, for my brain goes wrong 

when I see the sorrows that can't be cured. 
If this is all righteous, then w^hy prolong the pain 

for a thing that must be endured ? 
We can never have palaces built without slaves, nor 

luxuries served without ill-paid toil ; 
Society flourishes only on graves, the moral graves 

in the lowly soil. 



THE CITY STREETS. 75 

The earth was not made for its people : that cry has 

been hounded down as a social crime ; 
The meaning of life is to barter and buy ; and the 

strongest and shrewdest are masters of time. 
God made the million to serve the few, and their 

questions of right are vain conceits ; 
To have one sweet home that is safe and true, ten 

garrets must reek in the darkened streets. 

'Tis Civilization, so they say, and it cannot be 
changed for the weakness of men. 

Take care ! take care ! 'tis a desperate way to goad 
the wolf to the end of his den. 

Take heed of your Civilization, ye, on your pyra- 
mids built of quivering hearts ; 

There are stages, like Paris in '93, where the com- 
monest men play most terrible parts. 

Your statutes may crush but they cannot kill the 
patient sense of a natural right ; 

It may slowly move, but the People's will, like the 
ocean o'er Holland, is always in sight. 

*'It is not our fault !" say the rich ones. No ; 'tis 
the fault of a system old and strong ; 

But men are the makers of systems : so, the cure 
will come if we own the wrong. 



76 THE CITY STREETS. 

It will come in peace if the man-right lead ; it will 

sweep in storm if it be denied : 
The law to bring justice is always decreed ; and on 

every hand are the warnings cried. 
Take heed of your Progress ! Its feet have trod on 

the souls it slew with its own pollutions ; 
Submission is good ; but the order of God may 

flame the torch of the revolutions ! 
Beware with your Classes ! Men are men, and a cry 

in the night is a fearful teacher ; 
When it reaches the hearts of the masses, then they 

need but a sword for a judge and preacher. 
Take heed, for your Juggernaut pushes hard : God 

holds the doom that its day completes ; 
It will dawn like a fire when the track is barred by 

a barricade in the city streets. 



THE THREE QUEENS.* 

In the far time of Earth's sweet maiden beauty, 

^Vhen Morning hung with rapture on her breast ; 
AYhen every sentient life paid love for duty, 

And every law was Nature's own behest ; 
When reason ruled as subtle instinct taught her ; 

When joys were pure and sin and shame unseen ; 
Then God sent down His messenger and daughter, 

His kiss upon her lips, to reign as Queen ! 

Her name was Liberty ! Earth lay before her. 

And throbbed unconscious fealty and truth ; 
Mornins: and niijht men hastened to adore her. 

And from her eyes Peace drew perennial youth. 
Her hair was golden as the stars of heaven ; 

Her face was radiant with the kiss of Jove ; 
Her form was lovelier than the sun at even ; 

Death paled before her : Life was one with Love. 

* Read at the annual meeting of Phi Beta Kappa, Dartmouth 
College, 1882. 

(77) 



78 THE THREE QUEENS. 

O time traditioned ! ere thy dismal sequel, 

Men owned the world, and every man was free ; 
The lowest life was noble ; all were equal 

In needs and creeds, — their birthright Liberty. 
Possession had no power of caste, nor learning ; 

He was not great who owned a shining stone ; 
No seer was needed for the truth's discerning, 

Nor king nor code to teach the world its own. 
Distinction lived, but gave no power o'er others, 

As flowers have no dominion each o'er each ; 
What men could do they did among their brothers 

By skill of hand or gift of song or speech. 



Dear Golden Age ! that like a deathless spirit 
Fills our traditions with a light sublime ; 

Like wheat from Egypt's tombs our souls inherit 
Sweet dreams of freedom from thy vanished timCc 



O Goddess Liberty ! thy sun was cleaving 
Its golden path across a perfect sky, 

When lo ! a cloud, from night below upheaving, 
And underneath a shadow and a cry ! 



THE THREE QUEENS. 79 

In lurid darkness spread the thing of error, 
Swift ran the shudder and the fear beneath ; 

Till o'er the Queen's face passed the voiceless terror, 
And Love grew pale to see the joy of Death. 



Men stood benumbed to wait unknown disaster ; 

Full soon its sworded Messenger was seen ; 
**^eAoM/" he cried, '•Hlie %ceak shall have a master! 

The Strong shall rule! There reigns another 
Queen!'' 
Then rushed the forces of the night-born Power, 

And seized white Liberty, and cast her down ; 
Man's plundered birthright was the new Queen's 
dower, 

The sorrow of the weak ones was her crown. 



Her name was Law ! She sent her proclamation 

Through every land and set her crimson seal 
On every strangled right and revocation 

Of aim and instinct of the commonweal. 
She saw the true Queen prisoned by her creatures ; 

Who dared to speak, was slain by her command. 
Her face w^as lustreless. With smileless features 

She took the throne — a weapon in her hand ! 



80 THE THREE QUEEXS. 

Her new code read : ' ' The earth is for the able ; " 

(And able meant the selfish, strong, and shrewd ;) 
' ' Equality and freedom are a fable ; 

To take and keep the largest share is good." 
Her teachers taught the justice of oppression, 

That taxed the poor on all but air and sun ; 
Her preachers preached the gospel of possession, 

That hoards had rights Avhile human souls had 
none. 



Then all things changed their object and relation ; 

Commerce instead of Xature — Progress instead 
of Men ; 
The world became a monstrous corporation. 

Where ninety serfs ground luxury for ten. 
The masters blessed, the toilers cursed the system 

That classified and kept mankind apart ; 
But passing ages rained the dust of custom 

AVhere broken Nature showed the weld of art. 



But there were some who scorned to make alliance. 
Who owned the true Queen even in the dust ; 

And these, through generations, flung defiance 
From sraol and oribbet for their sacred trust. 



THE THREE QUEENS. 81 

Then came the Christ, the Saviour and the Brother, 

With truth and freedom once again the seed ; 
' ' Woe to the rich ! Do ye to one another 

As each desires for self" — man's primal creed. 
But, lo ! they took the Saviour and they bound 
him. 

And set him in their midst as he were free ; 
They made His tied hands seal their deeds around 
Him, 

And His dumb lips condemn fair Liberty ! 

* ' Then woe ! " cried those faint-hearted ; * ' woe for 
dreaming. 

For prayers and hopes and sufferings all in 
vain!" 
O Souls despondent at the outward seeming, 

Here at the cry, behold the light again ! 
Here at the cry, the answer and solution : 

When strong as Death the cold usurper reigns, 
When human right seems doomed to dissolution. 

And Hope itself is wrung with mortal pains ; 
When Christ is harnessed to the landlord's burden ; 

His truth to make men free a thing of scorn ; 
God hears the cry, and sends the mystic guerdon, — 

Earth thrills and throes — another Queen is born ! 



82 THE THREE QUEENS. 

O weak she comes, a child and not a woman ; 

Needing our nursing and devotion long ; 
But in her eyes the flame divine and human, 

To strengthen weak ones and restrain the strong. 

Her name is Learning ! Her domain unbounded ; 

Of all the fetters she commands the key ; 
Through her babe-mouth man's wrong shall be 
confounded, 

And link by link her sister Queen set free. 
Her hand shall hold the patriotic passes. 

And check the wrons: that zeal would do for 



o 



right ; 
Her whispered secrets shall inflame the masses 

To read their planet-charter by her light. 
Kound her to-day may press the base Queen's 
minions. 
Seeking alliance and approval. Nay ! 
The day and night shall mingle their dominions 
Ere Nature's rule and Mammon's join their sway. 

Our new Queen comes a nursling, thus to teach us 
The patience and the tenderness we need : 

To raise our natures that the light may reach us 
Of sacrifice and silence for a creed. 



THE THREE QUEENS. 83 

A nursling yet, — but every school and college 

Is training minds to tend the heavenly maid ; 
And men are learning, grain by grain, the knowl- 
edge 

That worlds exist for higher ends than trade. 
Grander than Vulcan's are these mighty forges 

Where souls are shaped and sharped like fiery 
swords. 
To arm the multitude till Might disgorges, 

And save the Saviour from the selfish hordes. 



Around us here we count those Pharos stations, 

Where men are bred to do their Queen's behest : 
To guard the deep republican foundations 

Of our majestic freedom of the West ! 
From our high place the broken view grows clearer, 

The bloodstained upward path the patriots trod ; 
Shall we not reach to bring the toilers nearer 

The law of Nature, Liberty, and God? 



MIDNIGHT — SEPTEMBER 19, 1881.* 

Once in a lifetime, we may see the veil 

Tremble and lift, that hides symbolic things ; 

The Spirit's vision, when the senses fail, 

Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook 
brings. 

Deep in the midst of turmoil, it may be — 
A crowded street, a forum, or a field, — 

The soul inverts the telescope to see 

To-day's event in future's years revealed. 

Back from the present, let us look at Rome ; 

Behold, what Cato meant, what Brutus said. 
Hark ! the Athenians welcome Cimon home ! 

How clear they are those glimpses of the dead ! 

* Death of President Garfield 

(84) 



MIDNIGHT, SEPTEMBER 10, 1881. 85 

But we, Lard toilers, we who plan and weave 
Through common days the web of common life, 

What word, alas ! shall teach us to receive 
The mystic meaning of our peace and strife ? 

Whence comes our symbol? Surely, God must 
speak — 

Xo less than He can make us heed or pause : 
Self-seekers we, too busy or too weak 

To search beyond our daily lives and laws. 

From things occult our earth-turned eyes rebel ; 

]^o sound of Destiny can reach our ears ; 
We have no time for dreaming Hark ! a knell — - 

A knell at midnight ! All the nation hears ! 

A second grievous throb ! The dreamers wake — 
The merchant's soul forgets his goods and ships ; 

The weary workmen from their slumbers break ; 
The women raise their eyes with quivering lips ; 

The miner rests upon his pick to hear ; 

The printer's type stops midway from the case ; 
The solemn sound has reached the roysterer's ear, 

And brouHit the shame and sorrow to his face. 



86 MIDNIGHT, SEPTEMBER 19, 1881. 

Again it booms ! O Mystic Veil, upraise ! 

— Behold, 'tis lifted? On the darkness drawn, 
A picture lined with light ! The people's gaze, 

From sea to sea, beholds it till the dawn ! 

A death-bed scene — a sinking sufferer lies, 

Their chosen ruler, crowned with love and pride ; 

Around, his counsellors, with streaming eyes ; 
His wife, heart-broken, kneeling by his side : 

Death's shadow holds her — it will pass too soon; 

She weeps in silence — bitterest of tears ; 
He wanders softly — Nature's kindest boon ; 

And as he murmurs, all the country hears : 

For him the pain is past, the struggle ends ; 

His cares and honors fade — his younger life 
In peaceful Mentor comes, with dear old friends ; 

His mother's arms take home his dear young wife. 

He stands among the students, tall and strong, 
And teaches truths republican and grand ; 

He moves — ah, pitiful — he sweeps along 
O'er fields of carnage leading his command ! 



MIDNIGHT, SEPTEMBER 19, 1881. 87 

He speaks to crowded faces — round him surge 
Thousands and millions of excited men : 

He hears them cheer — sees some vast light emerge — 
Is borne as on a tempest — then ah, then, 



The fancies fade, the fever's work is past ; 

A deepened pang, then recollection's thrill ; 
He feels the faithful lips that kiss their last. 

His heart beats once in answer, and is still ! 

The curtain falls : but hushed, as if afraid, 

The people wait, tear-stained, with heaving 
breast ; 

'Twill rise again, they know, when he is laid 
With Freedom, in the Capitol, at rest. 



AMERICA.* 

Nor War nor Peace, forever, old and young, 
But Strength my theme, whose song is yet un- 
sung. 
The People's Strength, the deep alluring dream. 
Of truths that seethe below the truths that seem. 



The buried ruins of dead empires seek, 
Of Indian, Syrian, Persian, Roman, Greek : 
From shattered capital and frieze upraise 
The stately structures of their golden days : 
Their laws occult, their priests and prophets ask, 
Their altars search, their oracles unmask, 
Their parable from birth to burial see. 
The acorn germ, the growth, the dense-leafed 
tree, 

(Read before the Army of the Potomac, in Detroit, 1881.) 
(88) 



AMERICA. 89 

A world of riant life ; the sudden day 
When like a new strange glory, shone decay, 
A golden glow amid the green ; the change 
From branch to branch at life's receding range, 
Till nothing stands of towering strength and 

pride 
Save naked trunk and arms whose veins are 

dried ; 
And these, too, crumble till no signs remain 
To mark its place upon the wind-swept plain. 



Why died the empires ? Like the forest trees 
Did Nature doom them ? or did slow disease 
Assail their roots and poison all their springs ? 

The old-time story answers : nobles, kings. 
Have made and been the State, their names 

alone 
Its history holds ; its wealth, its wars, their 

own. 
Their wanton wiJ could raise, enrich, condemn ; 
The toilins: millions lived and died for them. 
Their fortunes rose in conquest fell, in guilt ; 
The people ncA^er owned them, never built. 



90 AMERICA. 

Those olden times ! how many words are spent 

In weak regret and shallow argument 

To prove them wiser, happier than our own ! 

The oldest moment that the world has known 

Is passing now. Those vaunted times w^erc 

young ; 
Their wisdom from unlettered peasants sprung ; 
Their laws from nobles arrogant and rude ; 
Their justice force, their whole achievement 

crude. 



With men the old are wise : why change the rule 
When nations speak, and send the old to school? 
Eespect the past for all the good it knew : 
Give noble lives and struggling truths their due ; 
But ask what freedom knew the common men 
Who served and bled and won the victories then ? 
The leaders are immortal, but the hordes 
They led to death were simply human swords, 
Unknowing what they fought for, why they fell. 



What change has come ? Imperial Europe tell ! 
Death's warders cry from twenty centuries' peaks : 
Plataea's field the word to Plevna speaks ; 



AMERICA. 91 

The martial draft still wastes the peasants' 

farms — 
A dozen kings, — five million men in arms ; 
The earth mapped out estate-like, hedged with 

steel ; 
In neio^hborino^ schools the children bred to feel 
Unnatural hate, disjoined in speech and creed ; 
The forges roaring for the armies' need ; 
The cities builded by the people lined 
With scowling forts and roadways undermined ; 
At every bastioned frontier, every State, 
Suspicion, sworded, standing by the gate ! 



But turn our eyes from these oppressive lands : 
Behold, one country all defenceless stands, 
One nation-continent, from East to West, 
With riches heaped upon her bounteous breast ; 
Her mines, her marts, her skill of hand and 

brain. 
That bring Aladdin's dreams to light again ! 



Where sleep the conquerors? Here is chance for 

spoil : 
Such un watched fields, such endless, priceless toil ! 



92 AMERICA. 

Vain dream of olden time ! The robber strength 
That swept its will is overmatched at length. 
Here, not with swords but smiles the people 

greet 
The foreign spy in harbor, granary, street ; 
Here towns unguarded lie, for here alone 
Nor caste, nor king, nor privilege is known. 
For home our farmer ploughs, our miner delves, 
A land of toilers, toiling for themselves ; 
A land of cities, wdiich no fortress shields. 
Whose open streets reach out to fertile fields ; 
Whose roads are shaken by no armies' tread ; 
Whose only camps are cities of the dead I 
Go stand at Arlington the graves among : 
No ramparts, cannons there, no banners hung, 
No threat above the Capitol, no ])lare 
To warn the senators the guns are there. 

But never yet was city fortified 

Like that sad height above Potomac's tide ; 

There never yet was eloquence in speech 

Like those ten thousand stones, a name on each ; 

No guards e'er pressed such claims on court or 

king 
As these Praetorians to our Senate bring ; 



AMERICA. 93 

The Army of Potomac never lay 

So full of strength as in its camp to-day ! 



On fatal Chaeronea's field the Greeks 
A lion raised — a sombre tomb that speaks 
No word, no name, — an emblem of the pride 
Of those that ruled the insect host that died. 



But by her soldiers' graves Columbia proves 
How fast toward morn the ni^iit of manhood 

moves. 
Those low white lines at Gettysburg remain 
The sacred record of her huniblest slain, 
Whose children's children in their time shall 

come 
To view with pride their hero-father's tomb, 
While down the ages runs the patriot line, 
Till rich tradition makes each toml) a shrine. 



Our standing army these, with spectre glaives ; 
Our fortressed towns their battle-ordered graves. 
Here sleep our valiant, sown like dragon's teeth ; 
Here new-born sons renew the pious wreath ; 



04 AMERICA. 

Here proud Columbia bends with tear-stirred 

niouth, 
To kiss their blood-seal, binding North and South, 
Two clasping hands upon the knot they tied 
When Union lived and Human Slavery died ! 

Who doubt our strength, or measure it with those 
Whose armed millions wait for coming foes. 
They judge by royal standards, that depend 
On hireling hands to threaten or defend, 
That keep their war-dogs chained in time of peace. 
And dread a foe scarce less than their release. 
Who hunt wild beasts with cheetahs, fiercely 

tame. 
Must watch their hounds as well as fear their 



Around our veterans hung no dread nor doul)t 
When twice a million men were mustered out. 
As scattered seed in new-ploughed land, or flakes 
Of Spring-time snow descend in smiling lakes, 
Our war-born soldiers sank into the sea 
Of peaceful life and fruitful energy. 
No sign remained of that vast army, save 
In field and street new workmen, bronzed and 
grave • 



AMERICA. 95 

Some whistling teamsters still in army vest ; 
Some quiet citizens with medalled breast. 

So died the hatred of our brother feud ; 
The conflict o'er the triumph was subdued. 
What victor King e'er spared the conquered foe ? 
How much of mercy did strong Prussia show 
When anguished Paris at her feet lay prone ? 
The German trumpet rang above her moan, 
The clink of Uhlan spurs her temples knew, 
Her Arch of Triumph spanned their triumph, too. 

Not thus, O South ! when thy proud head was 

low. 
Thy passionate heart laid open to the foe — 
Not thus, Virginia, did, thy victors meet 
At Appomattox him who bore defeat : 
No brutal show abased thine honored State : 
Grant turned from Kichmond at the very gate ! 

O Land magnanimous, republican ! 
The last for Nationhood, the first for Man ! 
Because thy lines by Freedom's hand were laid 
Profound the sin to change or retrograde. 



96 A^lEIilCA. 

From base to cresting let thy work be new ; 
'Twas not by aping foreign ways it grew. 
To struggling peoples give at least applause ; 
Let equities not precedent subtend your laws ; 
Like rays from that great Eye the altars show, 
That fall triangular, free states should grow. 
The soul above, the brain and hand below. 
Believe that strength lies not in steel nor stone ; 
That perils wait the land whose heavy throne. 
Though ringed by swords and rich with titled 

show. 
Is based on fettered misery below ; 
That nations grow where every class unites 
For common interests and common rights ; 
Where no caste barrier stays the poor man's son. 
Till step by step the topmost height is won ; 
Where every hand subscribes to ever}^ rule. 
And free as air are voice and vote and school ! 
A Nation's years are centuries. Let Art 
Portray thy first, and Liberty will start 
From every field in Europe at the sight. 
''Why stand these thrones between us and the 

light?" 
Strong men will ask : "Who built these frontier 

towers 
To bar out men of kindred blood with ours?" 



AMERICA. 97 

O, this thy work, Republic ! this thy health. 
To prove man's birthright to a commonwealth ; 
To teach the peoples to be strong and wise, 
Till armies, nations, nobles, royalties, 
Are laid at rest with all their fears and hates ; 
Till Europe's thirteen Monarchies are States, 
Without a barrier and without a throne. 
Of one grand Federation like our own ! 



THE 



STATUES IN THE BLOCK, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



BY JOHN BOYLE O'REIL LV, 



OriNIONS OF THE PRESS. 

From the Boston Bdly Advertiser. 

" Mr. O'Keilly excels in dramatic poetry. When he has an heroic story to 
tell, he tells it with ardor and vigor; he appreciates all its nobleness of 
soul, as Avell as its romantic and picturesque situations; and his 'Song for 
the Soldiers,' and 'The Mutiny of the Chains,' in his last volume, show 
with what power he can portray the daring and heroism that have stirred 
his own heart. He writes with ease and freedom, but his poems of love 
and of discontent are not superior to those of other well-known English 
poets. His best work in this way are 'Her Hefrain,' a sweet, tender 
poem, true to life; and 'Waiting,' that is far more impassioned. The 
cynical verses and epigrams scattered through the book are piquant, and 
enhance its sweetness, as bitter almonds do the richness of confectionery. 
There is another side still to Mr. O'Reilly's poetr^^ and it v»^ould be easy to 
represent him as chiefly religious, earnest and tender. His jjoems abound 
in passages like the following from ' Living ' : — 

" ' 'Wlio waits and sympathizes with the pettiest life, 
And loves all things, and reaches np to God 
With thanks and blessing — he alone is living.' 

" And ' From the Earth a Cry,' this line : — 

" ' God purifies sloAvly by peace, and urgently by fire. 

" From ' The Statues in the Block ': — 

" ' And I know 
That when God gives to us the clearest sight, 
He does not touch our eves with Love, l)ut Sorrow.' " 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



From the JVevj York World. 



" Nobody can look over Mr. O'Reilly's poems without being convinced that 
they are poems; that is to say, that the writer has really something to say, 
and something which could not be said so well and so completely in prose. 
Those who are in the habit of looking over current volumes of verse will 
recognize that this is very much to say of them. Mr. O'Reilly's verses are, 
indeed, quite out of the common. There is not one of the poems in this 
thin volume that is not a genuine poem in the sense that it records a 
genuine and poetical impression. His talent is essentially, we should say 
almost exclusively, dramatic, as strictly dramatic as Browning's. The 
most successful of these poems are those which are professedly dramatic 
rather than those which are contemplative. This excellence in dramatic 
verse is nfttional. From Thomas Davis down, the Irish lyrists, who are 
worthy of classification at all in poetry, excel in representation of rapid 
action and of the emotion which is connected with rapid action; and this 
is what we call dramatic excellence. Mr. O'Reilly's chief successes are in 
such poems as 'A Song for the Soldiers,' and 'The Mutiny of the 
Chains,' in the present volume." 



Newark {N. J.) Morning Begister. 

" Roberts Brothers, Boston, have just published ' The Statues in the 
Block, and Other Poems,' by John Boyle O'Reilly. The poem that gives 
the book its title is the storj' of four persons looking at a block of marble 
and seeing an ideal in it. One, her he loved, his jewel, and the jewel of 
the world. Another, her upon whom he lavished coin — he drank the wine 
she filled and made her eat the dregs, and drenched her honey with a sea 
of gall; he, however, was but one who swooned with love beside her. The 
third was suffering " Motherland," and, as may be supposed, the author's 
pen waxes strong at picturing the sorrow, because — 

" ' No love but thine can satisfy the heart, 
For love of thee holds in it hate of wrong, 
And shapes the hope that moulds humanity." 

" The fourth sees in the block his lost child, and the pen softens as he 
sees — 

" ' The little hands still crossed — a child in death; 
My link with love — my dying gift from her 
"Whose last look smiled, on both when I was left 
A loveless man, save this poor gift, alone. 

I see my darling in the marble now — 

My wasted leaf — her kind eyes smiling fondly, 

And through her eyes I see the love beyond, 

The binding light that moves not; and' I know 

That when God gives to us the clearest sight, 

He does not touch our eyes with Love, but Sorrow.' " 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 3 

" Here and there through the collection are little unnamed wavelets, of 
which these four lines are a good example : — 

" ' You gave me the key of your heart, my love; 
Then why do you make me knock ? ' 
' O, that was yesterday, saints above ! 
And last night — I changed the lock! ' " 



Dr, Slielton M'Kenzie in the Philadelphia Evening News. 

" Good poetry, which constitutes a considerable portion of literature, has 
been rather scarce of late. The odds and ends of verse which get into the 
magazines are generally aimless and crude. The poet sits down to write 
what he has thought, but the poetaster takes pen in hand to think what he 
shall think. There is a world of difference between the results — that is, 
between true poesy and merely mechanical verse. .... 

The poem which leads off, covering only thirteen pages, is the longest in 
the volume, and is full of deep-thoughted expression; but it is probable 
that ' Muley Malek, the King,' a lay of chivalry, will have more numerous 
admirers. There is also ' From the Earth a Cry,' reviewing the leading 
events of the decade which closed in 1870. The heart-poems here are 
highly impressive in their truth. Here and there, on casual fly-leaves, we 
find curt truths; thus: — 

" 'Life is a certainty, 

Death is a doubt; 
Men may be dead 

AVhile'^they're walking about. 
Love is as needful 

In being as breath; 
Loving is dreaming. 

And waking is death.' 

" Here is another leaflet; an epigram if you please to call it so: — 

" ♦ You gave me the key of your heart, my love, 
Then why do you make me knock? ' 
' O, that was yesterday, saints above ! 
And last night — I changed the lock ! ' 

" Apropos of the season, which holds back its beauty and bloom, here is 
a bit of truth : — 

" ' O, the rare spring flowers! take them as they come; 
Do not wait for summer buds, they may never bloom ; 
Every sweet to-day sends, we are wise to save; 
Roses bloom for pulling^ the path is to the grave.' 

'•In conclusion, we earnestly hope that Mr. Boyle O'Reilly, who writes so 
well, will challenge our attention, our admiration, far more frequently 
than he yet has done." 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



From the New York Herald. 

" Mr. 0'E,eilly has treated with a beautiful purpose the theme of four men, 
each imagining the statue that may be carved from a block of marble. 
Love is the first, Revenge the second, Suffering Motherland the third, and 
Borrow the last. All these are strongly, nay, passionately drawn, with that 
inner relation to actual experience in the narrator, which so intensifies the 
interest. The first is a lovely woman : — 

" ' O Love! still living, memory and hope, 

Beyond all sweets, thy bosom, breath and lips — 
My jewel and the jewel of the world.' 

" The second, a faithless woman, cowering above the form of her newly- 
slain paramour: — 

" ' O balm and torture! he nnist hate who loves, 
And bleed who strikes to seek thy face, Revenge.' 

" The third a chained woman — Mother and Motherland: — 

" ' O star 
That lightens desolation, o'er her beam, 
. . . Till the dawn is red 
Of that white noon when men shall call her Queen.' 

"The fourth is the figure of a dead child: — 

" ' I know 
That when God gives to us the clearest sight 
He does not touch our eyes with Love, but Sorrow.' 

•'In 'Muley Malek, the King,' Mr. O'Reilly bursts over the bounds of 
metre; but in the swing of his utterance there is a certain forceful 
rhythm, indicating an earnest endeavor to preserve some of the character- 
istics of song. In 'From the Earth a Cry,' however, all reserve is thrown 
off, and he launches formlessly forth. Walt Whitman chopped uj) 
Carlylesque sentences into lines at hazard, but rapidly debased the model. 
Mr. O'Reilly takes a high strident key, and follows Whitman's most 
ambitious endeavors. It is an eloquent invective, and its fitfulness and 
spasmodics have a certain relation to its grievous story of hum.an oppres- 
sion. It is as formless and as forcible as the onrushing mob it invokes. 
All that is, is wrong; what need of nice measiiring of feet? It is not the 
measured tramp of an array that can be expected where the undisciplined 
millions rise to bear down drilled thousands. 

" ' O Christ! and O Christ! In thy na.me the law! 

In thy mouth the mandate ! In Thy loving hands the whip ! 

They have taken Thee down from thy cross and sent Thee to scourge the 

people; 
They have shod Thy feet with spikes, and jointed Thy dead knees with iron, 
And pushed Thee, hiding behind, to trample the j)oor dumb faces.' 

" Oppression has its leagues and its triumphs, but 

" 'Never, while steel is cheap and sha.rp, shall thy kingl'ngs sleep without 
dreaming.' " 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 5 

From the Buffalo Union. 

" The strength, tenderness, and exceeding power and aptness of expres- 
sion conspicuous in a former volume — (' Songs, Legends, and Ballads") — 
.are all here, intensified. The poet goes beyond the limits of any one land 
or nationhood. He sings here for all time and for every nation. His in- 
spiration is Hmnanity, wherever it agonizes under tyrannical bonds or 
struggles to break them, ' From the Earth a Cry,' is a very epitome of 
the history of the manifold uprisings, all the world over, of the vreak 
against the strong during the decade just ended — the voice of the 
oppressed clamoring to Heaven for vengeance — an arraignment of the 

" ' Landlords and Lawlords and Tradelords,' 

before the bar of justice, and in face of the terrible growth of 

" 'Communists, Socialists, Nihilists, Rent-rebels, Strikers' — 

from the seed themselves have sown. 

"We wish we could speak in detail of some of the other poems, with 
their rugged but splendid versification, in which the poet has taken 



• No heed of the words, nor 
the style of the story,' 



but 



" ' Let it burst out from the heart, like a spring from the womb of the 
mountain; ' 

or of that majestic opening poem. ' The Statues in the Block,' through 
v.hich this true note rings : — 

" ' When God gives to us the clearest sight, 
He does not touch our eyes with Love, but Sorrow.' 

"We strike on a vein of keen but kindly sarcasm at the expense of poor 
human nature here and there through the collection, especially in a few 
of those gem-like stanzas that prelude the different sections. But the 
poet has a sweet voice for tender themes; and there are some exquisite 
lyrics here, too, like fragrant, delicate flowers, blooming in the clefts of 
the massive rock. Such, notably, are ' Her Refrain,' ' Waiting,' ' Jacque- 
minots ' and ' The Temple of Friendship.' The book is inscribed ' To the 
Memory of Eliza Boj'le ; INIy Mother.' " 



From the Boston Journal. 

"The little volume containing 'The Statues in the Block, and Other 
Poems,' by John Boyle O'Reilly, will commend itself to those for v/hom 
fresh and spirited verse has charms. The pieces, which number about 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



twenty, are of two very different styles ; the one graceful in form, and con 
veying some light fancy or suggestion, and the other careless as to form, 
usually barren of rhyme, and irregular with the pulses of stern and pas- 
sionate emotion. Of the former type are ' Jacqueminots,' ' Her Refrain 
and ' The Temple of Friendship' ; of the latter, ' From the Earth a Cry 
' A Song for the Soldiers, and ' The Mutiny of the Chains.' The first poem 
mentioned in the latter group, and indeed some others belonging to the 
same group, have a Walt Whitmanish turn to them which, we are free to 
confess, we do not like. Take, for example, such lines as these:— 

" ' Lightning! the air is split, the crater bursts, and the breathing 

Of those below is the fume and fire of hatred. 

The thrones are stayed with the courage of shotted guns. The warnin^ 

dies. 
But queens are dragged to the block, and the knife of the guillotine sinks 
In the garbage of pam^jered flesh that gluts its bed and its hinges.' 

" The story of the mutiny in the final poem is finely told, as is also the 
story of the defence of the Cheyennes, in the poem preceding it. Mr. 
O'Reilly is at his best when his blood is hot and his indignation roused by 
the thought of human wrongs; and some of his pieces, written under this 
inspiration, have a ring like anvil strokes, and stir the blood of the reader 
as by the sound of trumpets." 



opiniojsts of the peess. 



''SONGS FROM THE SOUTHERN SEAS.' 

BY JOHN BOYLE O'JREILLY. 



Neil} York Arcadian. 
" Like the Mnell of new-mown Lay, or the first breath of spring, or an 
unexpected kiss from well-lovevl lips, or any other sweet, fresh, whole- 
some, natural delight, is to the professional reviewer the first perusal oi 
genuine poetry by a new writer. Not for a long time have we experiencec? 
so fresh and joyous a surprise, so perfect a literary treat, as has been given 
us bv these fresh and glowing songs by this young and hitherto utterly 
unknown poet. There is something so thoroughly new and natural and 
lifelike, something so buoyant and wholesome and true, so much original 
power nnd boldness of touch in tliese songs, that we feel at once that we 
are in the presence of a new power in poetry. This work alone places its 
author head and shoulder above the rank and file of contemporary versi- 
fiers. . . . The closing passages of * Uncle Ned's ' second tale, are in the 
highest degree dramatic, — thrilling the reader like the bugle-note that 
sounds the cry to arms. Finally, several of the poems are animated by a 
spirit so alTectionate andpure, that we feel constrained to love theirwriter, 
offering, as they do in this n^spect, so marked and pleasant a contrast with 
too much of the so-calleil poetry of these modern times." 

Baltimore Bulletin. 

*• Mr. O'Reilly is a true poet — no one can read his stirring measures and 
Lis picturesque descriptive passages without at once recognizing the true 
singer, and experiencing the contagion of his spirit. He soars loftily and 
grandly, and his song peals forth with a rare roundnesss and mellowness 
of tone that cheers and inspirits the hearer. His subjects belong to the 
open air, to new fields or untrod wilds, and they ate full of healthy 
freshness, and the vigor of sturdy, redundant life. We hail Mr. O'Reilly 
with pleasure, and we demand for him the cordial recognition he a* 
serves." 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
*' We may safely say that we lay these poems down witl a feeling of de- 
light that there has come among us a true poet, who ca i enchant by the 
vivid tire of his pictures without having recourse to a tx-iclv of words, or 
the re-<lre8f.ing an<l re-torturing of old forjjotten ideas. These poems, for 
the most part, are fresh and lifelike as the lyrics which led our forefathers 
to deeds of glory. "With scarce a line of mawliish sentiment, there is the 
deep heart-feeling of a true poet. His descriptions bear the impress of 
truth and the rea!i:^m of personal acquaintance with the incidents de- 
scribed. Tiiere is the flow of Scott in Lis narrative power, and the fire of 
Macaulay in his trumpet-toned tales of war. We are much mistaken if 
this man does not in the course of a few years walk the course, xind show 
the world how narrative poetry sliould be written. He has it in Lim, and 
genius cannot be kept under hatches. Passing over 'The Dog Guard,' a 
fearful picture, we come to ' The Amber Whale.' It is impossible to 
describe the intense interest that surrounds this dramatic description. A 
more exciting chase could hardly be conceived, and as we stand with 
bated breath, while the mate drives his lance home to the vitals, and the 
boats go hissing along in the wake of the wounded monster, we seem to 
behold the sea red with blood, and mark the flukes as they sweep the cap- 
tain's boat into eternity. Here is a portion of the story : — 

" * Tlien we heard the captain's order, " Heave! " and saw the harpoon fly, 
As the whales closed in with their open jaws: a shock, and a stifled cry 
Was all that we heard; then we looked to see if the crew were still 

afloat, — 
But notJiing was there save a dull red p«teh,and the boards of the shat- 
tered boat. 

• 

•' * But that was no time for mourning words: the other two boats came in, 
And one got fast on the quarter, and one aft the starboard fin 
Of the Amber Whale. For a minute he paused, as if he were in doubt 
As to whether 'twas best to run or fight. *' Lay on! " the mate roared 

out, 
"And I'll give him a lance! " The boat shot in; and the mate, when he 

saw Ids chi'.nce 
Of sending it home to the vitals, four times he bnried his lanco.' 

" We next come to ' The Dukite Snake,' a tale so simply told, so beauti- 
fully sad, that the heart goes out in pity to the poor young husband in his 
terrible grief. The Dukite Snake never goes alone. When one is killed 
the other will follow to the confines of the earth, but he will have revenge. 
Upon this fact the poet has wrought a picture so true and so dramatic that 
it almost chills the Mood to read a tale so cruel and so life-like. . . . Among 
the remaining poems of length, we have ' The Fishermen of Wexford,' ' The 
Flying Dutchman,' and ' Uncle Ned's Tales.' All are good: but the last Pre 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



simply superb. We doubt if more vivid pictures of yrnr were ever drawn. 
The iucideuts are detailed with such lifelike force, that to any one who had 
ever felt the enthusiastic frenzy of battle, they bring back the sounds of the 
sheila and the shout of advancing columns. They are lifelike as the pages 
of Tacitus, and stir the blood to a fever heat of warlike enthusiasm. They 
are strains to make soldiers." 

London Athenceum. 

" Mr. O'Reilly is the poet of a far land. He sings of Western Aus- 
tralia, that poorest and loveliest of all the Australias, which has received 
from the mother country only her shame and her crime. 31r. O'Reilly, 
in a short poem, speaks of the land as * discovered ere the fitting time,' 
endowed with a peerless clime, but having birds that do not sing, flowers 
that give no scent, and trees that do not fructify. Scenes and incidents, 
however, known to the author, in this perfumeless and mute land, have 
been reproduced by him in a series of poems of much beauty. 'The 
King of the Vasse,' a legend of the bush, is a weird and deeply pathetic 
poem, admirable alike for its conception and execution." 

Atlantic Monthly. 
" In a modest, well- worded prelude, the poet says: — 

" • From that fair land and drear land in the South, 

Of which through years I do not cease to think, 
I brought a tale, learned not by word of mouth. 

But formed by finding here one golden link 
And there another; and with hands unskilled 

For such line work, but patient of all pain 
For love of it, I sought therefrom to build 

What might have been at first the goodly chain. 

" * It is not golden now: my craft knows more 
Of working baser metal than of tine; 
But to those fate-wrought rings of precious ore 
I add these rugged iron links of mine.' 

"This is not claiming enough for himself, but the reader the more 
gladly does him justice because of his modesty, and perhaps it is this 
quality in the author which oftenest commends his book. ' The King of 
the Vasse ' is the story of a child of the first Swedish emigrants to Aus- 
tralia, who lies dead in his mother's arms when they land. A native chief, 
coming with all his people to greet the strangers, touches the boy's fore- 
head with a great pearl, which he keeps in a carven case or shrine, and 
the mighty magic of it calls him back to life, but with a savage soul, as his 
kindred believe; for he deserts them for the natives, over whom he 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



rules many years, inheriting and wearing tiie magic pearl. At last the 
young men of the tribe begin to question his authority, and one of them, 
with a spear-thrust, destroys the great pearl. Jacob Eibsen then seems 
repossessed by a white man's soul, and returns to the spot long since 
abandoned by his kindred, and iinds it occupied by English settlers, whose 
children's simple, childlike playmate he becomes, and remains till death. 
The plot is good; and it is always managed with a sober simplicity, which 
forms an excellent ground for some strong dramatic effects. The Austra- 
lian scenery and air and natural life are everywhere summoned round 
the story without being forced upon the reader. Here, for instance, ia 
a picture at once vivid and intelligible,— which is not always the case 
with the vivid pictures of the word-painters. After the rains begin in that 
southern climate, — 

" ' Earth throbs and heaves 

With pregnant prescience of life and leaves; 

The shadows darken 'neath the tall trees' screen. 

While round their stems the rank and velvet green 

Of undergrowth is deeper still; and there. 

Within the do-uble shade ami steaming air. 

The scarlet palm has lixed its noxious root. 

And hangs the glorious poison of its fruit; 

And there, 'mid shaded green and shaded light. 

The steel-blue silent birds take rapid llight 

From earth to tree ami tree to earth ; and there 

The crimson-plumaged parrot cleaves the air 

Like flying lire, and huge brown owls awake 

To watch, far down, the stealing carpet-snake, 

Fresh-skinned ami glowing in his changing dyes. 

With evil wisdom in the cruel eyes 

That glint like gems as o'er his head flits by 

The blue-black armor of the emperi)r-tly ; 

And all the humid earth displays its powers 

Of prayer, with incense from tlie hearts of flowers 

That load the air with beauty and with wine 

Of mingled color. . 

•' * And high o'erhead is color: round and round 
The towering gums and taads, closely woun<l 
Like cables, creep the climbers to the sua, 
And over all the reaching branches run 
And hang, and still send shouts that climb and wind 
Till every arm and spray and leaf is twined, 
And uules of trees, like brethren joined in love, 
Are drawn and hu-ed; while round them and above, 
When all is knit, the creeper rests for days 
As gathering might, and then one blinding blaze 
Of very glory sends, in wealth and strength, 
Of scarlet flowers o'er the forest's length!' 

" There are deep springs of familiar feeling (as the mother's grief for 
the estrangement of her savage-hearted son) also touched in this poem, in 
which there is due artistic sense and enjoyment of the weirdness of the 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



motive; and, in short, we could imagine ourselves recurring more than 
once to the story, and liking it better and l^etter. ' The Dog Guard ' is the 
next best story in the book; — a horrible fact, treated with tragic realism, 
and skilfully kept from being merely horrible. . . . Some of the best 
poems in the book are the preludes to the stories." 

Boston Advertiser. 

" The first, and in many respects the best poem in the book, is ' The King 
of the Vasse,' which is a story of the very earliest settlement of Australia 
by Europeans, and before a convict settlement was established there. 
There is to it far greater care and finish than to any of the other lonu 
poems. In some parts it is weird and strange to a degree; in others it i.^ 
pathetic, — everywhere it is simple, with a pleasant flow of rhythm, and 
closely true to nature. It is followed by ' The Dog Guard,' a poem which 
leaves an impression on the mind like Coleridge's 'Ancient ^Mariner '— a sub- 
ject which, but for great skill in the treatment, would have been repulsive. 
As it stands in the book it shows eminent descriptive power, and a certain 
freedom and daring that lifts it far above the commonplace. Interspersed 
among the longer poems. are short verses, which must answer the same pur- 
pose in the book as the organist's interludes, helping out the value of that 
which precedes, and that which follows. Some of these are more than 
excellent. They stand out as a peculiar feature of the book, adding to its 
completeness, as they will add to the poet's reputation. Preceding ' The 
Dog Guard ' we have the following, which perhaps is as characteristic as 
any of the preludes. It will be seen that the burden of this, as indeed oi 
the whole book, is Western Australia: — 

" « Nation of Sun and Sin, 

Thy flowers and crimes are red, 
And thy heart is sore within 
While the glory crowns thy head. 
Land of the song.ess birds, 
What was thine ancient crime, 
Burning through lapse of time 
Like a prophet's cursing words? 

" ' Aloes and myrrh and tears 
Mix in thy bitter wine: 
Drink, while the cup is thine 
Drink, for the draught is sign 
Of thy reign in coming years.' 

" Mr. O'Reilly has done his work faithfully and well; he has given ua 
in his book more than he promised us in the preface; and to-day, with his 
first poetical venture before the public, he has added another to the laurels 
he has already won in other fields." 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



New York Tribune. 

"These songs are the most stirring tales of adventnre imaginable, 
chiefly i)lace<i iu Western Australia, a penal colony, which has ' received 
from the mother country only her shame and her crime.' The book is the 
very melodrama of poetry. . . . Mr. O'Keilly is a man whose career baa 
been full of wild and varied adventure, and who has put these stirring 
scenes — all of which he saw, and part of which he was — into verse as 
spontaneous and unconventional as the life he describes. His rhymed 
tales are as exciting as ghost stories, and we have been reading them while 
the early sullen November night closed in, with something the same feel- 
ing, the queer shiver of breathless expectation, with which we used to 
listen to legends of ghosts and goblins by our grandmother's firelight. 
Nut that the supernatural ligures too largely in these tales, — the actors in 
them are far more formidable than any disembodied spirits. . . . ' The King 
of the Vasse ' is a wonderful story, in which a dead child is raised to life 
by a pagan incantation and the touch of a mystic pearl on the face, — 
which will charm the lovers of the miraculous. * The Amber Whale,' 
'The Dog Guard,' and 'Haunted by Tigers,' are in the same vein with 
' The Monster Diamond.' Thrilling tales all of them. ' Chunder All's 
Wife ' is a charming little Oriental love story; a ' Legend of the Blessed 
Virgin ' is full of tenderness and grace, for Mr. O'Reilly is both a Catholic 
and an Irishman; and I canuot close my extracts from his book more 
fittingly than with his heartfelt lines to his * Native Land ' : — 

•' ' It chanced to me upon a time to sail 

Across the Southern Oce:in to and fro; 
And, lauding at fair ij^les, by stream and vale 

Of sensuous blessing did we ofttiuie^ go. 
And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep, 

Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy sione, 
Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep, 

And left us yearning still for lands unknown. 

" ' And when we found one, — for 'tis soon to find 

In thousaud-isied Cathay another isle, — 
For one short noon its treasures tilled the mind. 

And then again we yearned, r.nd ceased to smile. 
And so it wa->, from isle to isle we passed, 

Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips; 
And when that all was tasted, then at last 

We thirsted still for draughts instead of sip«. 

<« * I learned from this there is no Southern land 

Can till with love the hearts of Northern men. 
Sick minds need change; but, when in health they ataad 
'Ne»th foreign skies their love flies home again. 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



An<l thus with me it was: the yearning turned 

From laden airs of cinnamon away, 
And stretched far westward, while the full heart burned 

With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay I 

' My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief I 

My land that has no peer in all the sea 
For Verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf, — 

If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me. 
New loves may come with duties, but the first 

Is deepest yet, — the mother's breath and smiles : 
Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed 

Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles.' " 



Mr. R. H. Stoddard, in Scribner^s Monthly. 

•* ' The King of the Vaase,' the opening poem in Mr. O'Reilly'a volume, 
is a remarkable one; and if the legend be the creation of Mr. O'Reilly, it 
places him high among the few really imaginative poets. . . . This, in brief, 
is the outline of the * King of the Vasse.' In it we could point out many 
faulty lines. William Morris could have spun off the verse more fluently, 
and Longfellow could have imparted to it his usual grace. Still, we are 
glad that it is not from them, but from Mr. O'Reilly, that we receive 
it. The story is simply and strongly told, and is imaginative and 
pathetic. It is certainly the most poetic poem in the volume, though by 
no means the most striking one. ' The Amber Whale ' is more character- 
istic of Mr. O'Reilly's genius, as 'The Dog Guard' and ' The Dukite 
Snake ' are more characteristic of the region in which he is most at home. 
. . . . He is aa good a balladist as Walter Thornbnry, who is the 
only other living poet who could have written 'The Old Dragoon's 
Story.'" 

Boston Gazette. 

" This is a volume of admirable poetry. The more ambitious poems in 
the book are in narrative form, and are terse and spirited in style, and full 
of dramatic power and effect. Mr. O'Reilly is both picturesque and epi- 
grammatic, and writes with a manly straightforwardness that is very 
attractive. ... Of the sickly sentimentality that forms the groundwork 
of so much of our modern poetry, not a trace is to be found in this book. 

ne tone throughout is healthy, earnest, and pure. There is also an inde- 
pendence and originality of thought and treatment that are very striking, 
and which prove not the least attractive features of the book. Some of 
ehe stories are conceived with unusual power, and are developed wltb 
scarcely less effect and skill." 



8 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

Boston Times. 
" Some reminiacences of his romantic life, the poet has woven into the 
▼wrses that till this volume. Very grim reminiscences they are, of crime 
and death and horrors dire; but they represent faithfully, we have no 
doubt, the society, or rather savagery, of those far and fearsome lands. 
Most of the poems are stories, sombre in substance, but told with a vehe- 
ment vigor that is singularly harmonious with their themes. The opening 
poem, * The King of the Vasse,' preserves a strange and pathetic legend, 
which the poet has wrought into a powerful, but most painful story. His 
imagination revels in pictures of weird desolation and the repulsive and 
appalling prodigies of animal and vegetable life in the tropic world; and 
the effect of these presented in quicii succession, and varied only by 
episodes of human sin or suffering, is positively depressing. Such passages 
fts this abound in the poem: — 

" ' In that strange country's heart, whence comes the breath 
Of hot disease and pestileutiid dtjath, 
Lie leagues of wooded swamp, that from the hills 
Seem stretching meadows; but tao flood that fills 
These vaiiuy basins has tue hue of ink 
And dismal doorways open on the brink, 
Beneath the gnarled arms of trees that grow 
All leafless to the top, from routs below 
The Letue flood; and he who euters there 
Beneath this screen sees rising, ghastly bare, 
Like mammoth bones within a charuel dark, 
The white and ragged stems of paper-bark, 
That drip down moisture with a ceaseless drip, — 
With lines that run like cordage of a ship; 
For myriad creepers struggle to the light, 
And twine and meet o'erhead in murderous fight 
For life and sunshine. . . . 

" * Between the water and the matted screen, 
The bald-head vultures, two and two, are seen 
In dismal grandeur, with revolting face 
Of foul grotesque, like spirits of the place; 
And now and then a s^pear-shaped wave goes by, 
Its apex glittering with an evil eye 
That sets above its enemy and prey 
As from the wave in treacherous, slimy way 
The black snake winds, and strikes the bestial bird, 
Whose shriek-like wailing on the hills is heard.' 

"The *Dog Guard' is a tale of horrors. 'The Amber Whale* and 
' Haunted by Tigers ' are founded on whaling incidents, and the latter, 
especially, is eloquent with the woe of tragedy. There are a few poems ia 
the volume written in a lighter mood. ' Uncle Ned's Tale ' is a very 
spirited tale of battle. ' The Fishermen of Wexford ' is one of the bet't 
pieces in the collection — almost severe in its simple realism, but tenderly 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



pathetic. We Mve rarely seen a first volume of poems so rich iu promise 
as is this. It is singularly free from the faults of most early poems, and 
exhibits a maturity of thought and a sober strength of style that would do 
credit to any of our older poets." 

Boston Commercial Bulletin. 

*• His descriptive powers are remarkably strong and vivid, and his imag- 
ination powerful and vigorous. Yet it is evident from a glance at the 
minor poems of ' Golu,' and my • ^Mother's Memory,' that the author has 
an imagination that will not desert him on brighter and more graceful 
flights of fancy. Altogether the volume is one of much more than ordi- 
nary originality and excellence." 

Worcester Palladium. 

** He shows originality and good descriptive power, and he treats hi3 
8ul)ject3 con amore. . . . The author had the very best reason in the world 
for writing this collection, and a second volume will be awaited with rea- 
son; for strong points are displayed, and a person who writes becausa hia 
heart wills it, sooner or later wins the heart of the public." 

Bangor Wldg. 

" There is no one of the poems the book contains that has not running 
through it a sort of realism that at once takes possession of the reader's 
mind, and he looks upon it, as it were, as an actual event." 

Mr. Newell {Orpheus C. Kerr) in The Catholic Beview. 

'•Judged in all the phases of his talent presented by this book, Jtr. 
O'Reilly is unquestionably a man of true poetic verve and temperament, 
with too much reverence for the noble gift of song to sophisticate it with 
mawkish affectations or conceited verbal ingenuities. No obscure line 
patches his page; no fantastic mannerism accentuates his style; no pretend- 
edly metaphysical abstraction egotizes what he thinks worthy of gift to 
EuankiBd." 

Utica Herald. 

" In the leading poem of Mr. O'Reilly's collection, entitled * The King of 
the Vasse,' there are novelties of scene and legend which alone claim the 
attention. . . . The poem is in many respects a wonderful one, and contains 
many subtleties of thought and expression, which it is impossible to 
reproduce in scanty extract." 



lO OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



Literary World, Boston. 
..." Mr, O'Reilly unquestionably possesses poetical talent of a high and 
rare order. He excels iu draiusitic narrative, to which his natural intensity 
of feeling lends a peculiar force. His verse is sometimes careless, and 
often lacks finish; but writers are few, nowadays, who have a better capi- 
tal ia heart or hand for successful poetical work than that which is 
evidenced in this volume." 

New York Independent. 
" The first and longest poem in this book, ' The King of the Vasse,' 
introduces us into a new country, and proves that the author's dreary 
Australian experiences were a gain to literature. . . . ' The Dog Guard ' 
and ' The Amber Whale ' are even better, the first being an addition of 
real value to our literature. Throughout the lesser poems which compose 
the remainder of the volume, there is such an evenness of excellence as 
to give good proof that the author need not confine himself to narrative 
poetry in order to claim an honorable place in our literature." 

Chicago Times. 
" This book is a striking instance that • you find poetry nowhere unless 
you bring some with you.' The thousands of despairing wretches who 
have toiled in the chain-gangs as Mr. O'Reilly did, saw no poems in the 
Boil which eeemed to give them back the impress only of the British 
arrow cut on the sole of their convict shoes. But the radiant imagination 
and tender heart of the patriot felon found poetry on every side of him, 
and in his hands the driest stick becomes an Aaron's rod, and buds 
and blossoms. The most delightful portion of the book is its Australian 
legends. These reveal extraordinary dramatic power, and their rhythmi- 
cal construction is perfect. Unique and incomparable, they will keep a per • 
manent place in literature, and the romance of tlieir origin and authorship 
will scarcely add anything to their beauty and completeness as poems. . . . 
•Jlodem poets put a great deal of water in their ink,* says Goethe. 
O'Reilly's ink contains just water enough to keep the fluid from becoming 
thick. It flows like a limpid stream, flecked with clouds and sunlight, and 
here and there tossing with so much force into fissures of Australian rocks 
as to send up glittering, snowy showers of spray. O'Reilly is undoubtedly 
destined to reach a high pla,ce as an English poet. He is now a very 
young man." 

Christian Era. 
"As a poet, his writings have called forth admiration, and as an editor, 
he is worthy of great praise." 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. II 



Mr. E. P. Whipple^ in the Boston Globe. 
" The Boston editors can boast of having a poet in their ranks, and they 
should naturally cherish him. . . . More than half his volume is devoted 
to what he saw, felt, collected, and imagined during a forced sojourn in 
Australia. The remaining portion consists of occasional poems, very 
tender, fanciful, earnest, individual, and manly, claiming nothing which 
tbey do not win by their own inherent force, grace, melody, and 'sweet 
rtiiisouableness,' or it may be at times their passionate unreasonableness. 
Nobody can read the volume without being drawn to its author. He is so 
thoroughly honest and sincere that he insists that his imaginations are but 
memories." 

New York Evening Mail. 

" Most of the songs are stories of the bush or of the sea, and, strangely, the 
subjects are almost without exception, illustrations of the awful surety of 
the punishment that lays in wait for the sin of him whom men harm not 
— the key of Coleridge's ' Ancieut Mariner.' It is almost the old Greek 
Fate that stalks through these tales of outlawry and wrong, and if they be 
indeed the legends of a convict land, they are themselves a strange showing 
of how crime haunts and hunts the soul. . . . Mr. OReilly has the natural 
gift of telling a story capitally, and all these tales in verse are interesting 
as well as powerful. He has other qualilications also as a poet; his Aus- 
tralian landscapes are drawn with tine artistic skill, and testify to their 
own truth, and about some of his pictures their is a weirduess that touches 
on the supernatural." 

Boston Post. 

" Of the author's genius in poetry the public are so well aware, through 
his fugitive pieces, that no commendation is necessary. His style is vigor- 
ous and manly, and combines a delicacy of sentiment with clearness of 
thought and vivacity of imagery. Most of these poems have a peculiar 
interest, from the fact that they are of a narrative form, * relics of an un- 
known sphere,' of the writer's personal experience and adventure in 
Australia. They are uneven in merit, but by far the greater number have 
already taken a permanent place among the living poems of the day." 

Banbury News. 

*' His poems, aside from their intrinsic merit and romantic interest, are 
worth close study, as examples of the effects produced upon the mind of a 
prisoner by the wild luxuriance and fantastic forms which nature assumes 
in Australia." 



12 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

Nexu York Tablet 
** Tha * Amber Whale,' ' Dog Guard,' and ' Monster Diamond,' ar« 
among the best known of his longer poems, and they have already taken 
their phice among-*t the best narrative poems of the age. . . . We hail 
with very great pleasure this first collection of Mr. O'Reilly's poems, 
which we hope will meet with the kindly welcome it deserves from all 
lovers of ballad poetry." 

Cincinnati Times, 
"Amid the frantic strivings of modern poets to obtain a reputation for 
originality by wild mouthings, odd, strange, and revolting conceits, by soar- 
ing toward the empyrian, and diving into the inliuile, by a false mysticism 
and luxuriance of verbiage, covering a poverty of ideas, it is refreshing to 
find one poet who is content to be original within the domain of common 
sense; who courts the muses, not witii the freedom of a literary libertine, 
but modestly, yet with true poetic ardor. ... In view of all this we take 
it as a most encouraging thing tliat such a book of poetry as' Songs from the 
Southern Seas ' is published, and still more encouraging its evident ap- 
proval by critics and acceptableness to the public. In some of the poems, 
notably in 'The King of the Yasse,' there are traces of the influence of 
Wm. Morris, and Mr. O'Keilly could not be influenced from a sweeter, 
purer soui'ce; in narrative passages there is evidence of a study of Scott, 
and tlie poet could not study in this department a better model; in the 
war lyrics there is an evident following of the style of Jlacaulay, and a 
Binger of more stirring battle-songs never lived; but throughout the book 
there is hardly a trace of Swinburne or the Swinburnian school. The 
poems are strong, earnest, and the offspring of genuine emotion. . . . Mr, 
O'Reilly's war lyrics, under the title of ' Uncle Ned's Tales,' are the most 
spirited that have been produced for a long time. They have all the ring 
and fire of Macaulay; they stir one's blood like the neigh of a war-horse or 
the blast of a bugle." 

Hartford Post. 
*' Some of the short poems are full of thoughtful earnestness and the 
true poet's yearning tenderness, while seldom have more stirring lines 
told tales of war than those of * Uncle Ned's Stories.' " 

San Francisco Monitor. 
" The volume now before us contains * The King of the Vasse,' ' The 
Dog Guard,' 'The Amber Whale,' and a number of minor pieces, all of 
which are marked by much dramatic power and beauty of imagery, show- 
lug him to be a poet in the truest sense of the word." 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 1 3 

Irish American. 
" Originality, wliether of Ideas, conatmction, or of subjects, Is the prin^ 
cipal something invariable sought for, and but seldom found, in the gen- 
eration of ' poets * with which this era of ours is so lavishly supplied. In 
the volume before us, however, this essential poetic quality ia so strikingly 
manifest, that, in recognition of it, we must assign Mr. O'Reilly a very 
high place among the few who, in our day, write readable and meritorious 
verse. But this is not the only feature in Mr. O'Reilly's nm?e worthy of 
remark; the vigor of his lines, the aptness of his similes, the effectiveness 
of his climaxes, — all testify to the exis'^ence in the author of that true 
poetic disposition, which is ever inborn, and never acquired. To tliose 
who may be sceptical of our judgment, we say, read the ' Songs from 
the Southern Seas,' and realize the pleasure they are calculated to afford 
even the most critical." 

Detroit Post. 

"They are evidently not fictions, but faithful transcripts of his own 
feelings; the imagery ia not stolen or borrowed, but original." 

Hartford Courant. 
" The volume not only contains a great deal of vigoroua and interesting 
poetry, but it gives excellent promise for the future." 

Albany Journal. 
*' For wild adventure and thrilling experience they will compare with the 
most weird and exciting legends." 

Dublin Nation. 
"The narratives themselves are interesting; they have usually a tragic 
turn, and are worked out with no small degree of skill. . . . Some of the 
word-pictures of Australian scenery are exceedingly realistic and vivid. 
. . . Some of the minor poems in this book afford much better indications 
of the poetic capacities of the author; and the effect of the entire volume 
is to lead ua to believe that he has within him powers which will enable 
him to rise far above the mark to which he has here attained." 

Lawrence American. 
" There is a vein of fire and earnestness, a glow of enthusiasm, that can- 
not but attract to the writer, and win no slight admiration for his genius ; 
and his countrymen will especially be pleased with the graceful volome." 



14 OPINIONS CF THE PRESS. 



Catholic Eecord of Philadelphia. 

" It has seldom been our good fortune to discover a volume of verses in 
which the realistic and poetic elements were so powerfully and ably com- 
bined. Mr. O'Reilly selects his themes from among scenes and characters 
which would naturally be supposed to be the least congenial to the muse 
of song, for Erato is not usually considered at home among Nantucket tars 
on New Bedford whaling-ships, in Australian penal colonies, or the after- 
dark pranks of shameless youngsters. The luxurious arcades and flower- 
ing groves of the tropics may, indeed, be for a time her abode, and she 
may not disdain to occasionally bathe in the sparkling waters of sunny 
Southern seas, but we will stake our character for penetration on the as- 
sertion that Mr. O'Reilly is a handsome Irishman from the vicinity of Blar- 
ney Castle, for ho has so completely fascinated her that she follows him 
with her most favoring smiles wherever or whenever h< bids her presence. 
She is beside him in the murderer's secluded shelter; she rides with him on the 
storm-winds that whistle around the Horn; shesits beside him in the agoniz- 
ing cruise when the wounded amber whale drags his boat through the mighty 
Southern spray; she perches on an oil barrel on New Bedford's wharves, 
or peeps with him through the windows of a New-England meeting-hotfse. 
Wherever he lists, she lets him sing, — sing the tenderest of songs, W i^t 
mauliest of toaes." 



MOONDYNE: 

STOIL"2" IFIi-OIM: THE TJ ZST ID E IL-'W O^t LID. 

BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
Pilot Publisliing Co., Boston. Post-free for 81.50. 



OPIIS'ION'S OF THE PRESS. 



From the New York Sun. 

•'Regarded merely -with a view to its artistic merits, this is a narrative 
which no lover of novels should neglect to read. Whether we look to the 
strange and impressive nature of the scenery portrayed, and the abnormal 
conditions of life studied — to the novelty of incident and the skilful con- 
struction of plot, or to the vigorous strokes by which the persons of the 
tale are made to stand forth from the canvas — we cannot fail to recognize 
in this work a strong and captivating performance. . . . We do not know 
whether the author, as a matter of fact, has visited the penal colony in West 
Australia, or has made a study of British prisons, but certainly his account 
of convict life under these diverse conditions bears the marks of authen- 
ticity. What is more to our immediate purpose, his analysis of the princi- 
ples which lie at the roots of the systems of coniinement and transportation, 
is profound and fruitful, and his practical suggestions, enforced, as they are, 
by the experience of penal settlements, where, after a ceitain period of 
probation, the outlaws and the victims of a highly-organized society art> 
suffered to begin life anew, deserve to be closely scanned and maturely 
pondered. . . . Such are some of the problems forced upon the reader's 
attention by this remarkable book, but which are rather hinted than ex- 
pounded — not so much dissected by argument as commended to our sympa- 
thies by the poignant spectacle of suffering and the winning accent of 
conviction. The author seldom overlooks the limitations of his artistic 
purpose, and the thread of his story may be followed with eagerness by 
those who would hear with indifference the teaching of the student and the 
philanthropist." 



iCv OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



From the Chicago Times. 

" 3foonclyne is remarkable in more respects than one. It has plot erongh 
for flaif-a-dozen strong romances; it is written with ciispness and sim- 
plicity, and in pure and nervous English ; its morality is orthodox ; its scene 
and characters are who ly novel and unique, and the interest is keenly — 
even painfully — sustained, . . . and no one can read MooJidyne without 
loving virtue more, pitying distress, abhorring injustice, and detesting vice. 
It is one of the few American novels which, while intensely romantic, is 
lolty in its aim, eloquent a"d noble in its argument, and hea'thy and refining 
in its effect. It is characterized throughout by the highest dramatic intuition, 
and ought to find its way speedi'y to the boards." 



From the New Orleans Morning Star and Catholic Visitor. 

"This fine novel is really a treat, refined in diction, high-toned in senti- 
ment, and instructive in details. There is no religious controversy in its 
pages, no tedious theological arguments in the fabric of its story, but the 
whole book affords its readers onlj' pleasure and profit. The spirit which 
animates the work is that of philanthropy, and the dedication, 'To all 
who are in prison, for whatever cause,' gives the clew to the object of the 
writer. The cliaracters are we 1 drawn, although we think the hero is over- 
drawn — that is, he is too perfect — but as a model to youth, the ex'mp'ar 
must be, as far as possible, faultless. The interest of the story is splendidly 
Bustained, and the life of ' Moondj-ne ' is thrilling, grand, and beautiful. The 
lessons conveyed are very noble, and we think this expression in the mouth 
of Mr. Wvville, under the attendant circumstances, is the one grand lesson 
of the book, ' Authority must never forget humanity.^ We would like to 
quote several passages from the book, which for strength and pathos 
approach very near to the sublime — but we can only name the many 
striking points, and leave to the reader the pleasure of reading them in 
full." 

From the Boston Daily Advertiser. 

** Mr. O'Reilly has made a wonderful story of the convict-labor in Aus- 
tralia. The whole tale is on as magnificent a sca'.e as Dumas' J/onte Cristo, 
and more lofty in aim and sentiment. The vast natural wealth and bewil- 
dering beauty of the country, are made the mere setting for a group Of men, 
who answer every demand of heroism, and for two sweet women. The 
"vMlain is as bad as the heroes are good ; through the whole book the interest 
never flags, the enthusiasm never cools, the intense dramatic and emotional 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 1/ 

power never breaks. With the same glowing ardor the e~oquent author 
tells of superhuman courage, hair-brcadth escapes, experiences in the bush, 
and in the convict-gangs, discusses the penal code of Austra'ia, the respon- 
sibility of Eng'and, the abstract principles of liberty and the rights of man, 
the origin of crime and the deepest and most tender love of man and 
woman. The rapid and high-wrought fiction of the story is enhanced by 
the rush and color of the style and the air of reality that is given to the 
most romantic incidents and to the wildest hori'ora. Moondyne, the title of 
the book, means something more tlian manly or kingly, and although it is 
applied especially to the chief god-iike hero, it belongs properly to the 
whole group of men who are represented as lifting Australia fi-om sin and 
darkness into virtue and glory by the greatness of their own souls, the 
strength of their own wills, and their own passion of unselfishness. And 
all through this gorgeous fabric runs the thread of faith in man, faith in the 
root of good to be found even in the worst of convicts, and in the Jaw of 
kindness and encouragement, to replace in all penal co'onics the law of 
force. Mr. O'Reilly dedicates his book ' to all who are in prison for what- 
ever cause.' And prisoners never had a more gallant and chivalrous 
champion." 

From the Woman's Journal. 

"This book is no ordinary romance. It is the work of a man of genius, 
who writes a descriptive story, largely based ufjon his own observation and 
experience, colored by his own feelings, and reflecting his own opinions, 
aspirations, and prejudices. It could onlj' have been written by John Boyie 
O'Reilly, a genuine poet and philanthropist, but also au American Catholic 
Irishman, an escaped Australian convict, exiled by the British Government 
for his participation in the Fenian insurrection. From such a man, with 
such an experience, it would be unfair to expect an exact picture of English 
or Australian life; but it is natural to expect a graphic transcript of an 
exceptional experience, all the more valuable because exceptional, ail the 
luore vivid because a record of scenes of which he has been an eye-witness. 
Australian scenery is reproduced with a wealth of word-painting which 
few living writers could equal. The horrible life of a penal colony is por- 
trayed with admirable distinctness. The national and re'igious feelings of 
the writer are carefully kept in the background, and there is an evident 
intention of fairness all through the book." 

From the Boston Traveller. 

•' Mr. O'Reilly has produced a strong and vigorous romance, in striking 
contrast with the namby-pamby literature of late offered to the public as 



1 8 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



exemplars of 'the great American novel.' The character of 'Moondyne' 
is among the noblest ever conceived by any novelist, and he who cannot 
read this story without attaining to a loftier inspiration toward a nobler life, 
•who cannot sympathize with the sorrows of the sinning and down-trodden, 
who cannot lay it aside with a resolution to make his own life more useful 
and better, — such an one must be blind indeed. The author's style is not 
among the least attractive features of the book. Strong, yet graceful, with 
a certain verve which is delightfully invigorating, whether in giving those 
inimitable character sketches which mark the volume in question, or in 
depicting to the mind of the reader the wildness and beauty of Australian 
scenery, Mr. O'Reilly is equally at home. We trust that Moondyne will 
not be the last novel from his pen." 



Frovi the London Bookseller. 

" A powerful and fascinating tale, illustrating different systems of treat- 
ment adopted towards criminal convicts. The story belongs to the time 
when Western Australia was a penal settlement, governed by laws of Dia- 
conic severity. The regulations of our prisons at home were far from 
satisfactory, as was proved by their frequent clianges, none of which long 
recommended themselves to practical men. Like Jean Valjean in Victor 
Hugo's story, the hero of the tale under notice was a convict, who, by a 
turn of the wheel, rose to a position of trust, and distinguished himself as a 
philanthropist, and a reformer of the present system. ISTo one who begins 
the story will be able to stop till it is finished." 



From the Worcester Spy. 

" This is a novel of harrowing and exciting description, brilliantly written, 
but almost too painful to allow enjoyment in the reading." 



From the Boston Journal. 

•'There is power in the book, and pathos, and passion of a noble sort; 
and there is an abundance of exciting incidents and some bits of stirring 
and graphic description. The most jaded novel reader will find that there 
is something more than commonly fresh and inspiring about the story. If 
there are some faults of construction, and a little lack of sj-mmetry, these 
are more than atoned for by the virile strength and intensity which hold the 
reader to the end." 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. J\f 

From the New York Graphic. 

••This brilliant and picturesque fiction obtained, a« it deserved, an imtrie- 
diate recognition of its power and originalitj', and added greatly to the 
already enviable reputation of its versatile and gifted author. In the form 
in which it now appears, with its large, clear type and its attractive pages, 
it will increase its circle of readers, and consequently its popularity. The 
book is one that amply rewards the reading, not only for the fire and vigor 
of its style, but for the dramatic interest and the unconventionality of its 
plot." 

From the Boston Herald. 

*' As a novel, we cannot but regret that the ending is so tragic, but we do 
not regard this volume as simply a novel. From beginning to end it is a 
satire upon British institutions, and we have seen nothing to sui-pass it 
since Bulwer's novel of Paul Clifford, where, under the guise of a love 
story, the author demonstrated that the prison system of England was an 
encouragement to crime, and that " the worst use you could put a man to 
was to hang him." Mr. O'Reilly's book has been favorably noticed in most 
of the leading journals of the country, but the Catholic newspapers criticise 
it very sharply, although thej^ ijrofess great respect for the author, and to 
love him sincerely. Mr. O'Reilly is not only a man of talent, but one of 
real genius. He is in the i^rime of life, and is abundantly able to take care 
of himself. He has w^ritten some of the best lyric jjoetry in the language, 
and although his first novel is not faultless, he has no occasion to be dis- 
turbed by any of the flies, gnats, or other dipterous insects which buzz about 
him." 

From the Boston Post. 

"Its originality is a special charm. It is full of manliness and viiile 
power, and yet abounding in gentleness and pathos." 



From the London Saturday Review. 
" 2roondy7ie is a really clever and graphic story of Australian life." 

From the Golden Rule. 

" The story is powerfully written. There is little scenic description, but 
Mr. O'Reilly shows a keen analysis of motives and character, and there is 
an imaginative glow and color suffused through the book which oniy tc» 



20 OPINION? ^F THE PRESS. 



poet could impart. The book is entirely without a harlequin. There is lew 
wit than the American reader might expect ; but the interest of the story 
never flags, and we feel that it was omitted, not because the writer could 
not command it, but because he had a greater joy and confidence in tb« 
higher and more serious purposes of his book." 



Fro-*i the Irish World. 

"As an insight into the p'>litical and natural history of Australia alone, it 
is one of the most valuable books written for years past; there is so little 
known of that strange land cl" oongless birds, scentless flowers, and fruit- 
less trees so wonderfully described in Mr. O'Reilly's Australian poems. 
' Moondyne,' the hero of the tale, reminds one of Victor Hugo's Jean Val- 
jean. Body and ^oul ground to the dust in penal servitude for little or no 
crime, his grand, rough nature comes out of it unscathed by its degrading 
influences, and even elevated to more than human strength and beauty as he 
/ays aside all thoughts of his own welfare, and devotes himself to the 
reform of the penal colony, and the amelioration of the awful slavery of 
Ms fellow-men." 

From the Cambridge Tribune. 

•* We think the book superior to Char'es Reade's book with the same 
object, that of calling attention to the wrongs inflicted upon convicts, and 
a« a work of fiction it impresses one more agreeably than that." 



A NKw roniance:. 



THE KING'S MEN, 



A TALE OF TO-MORROW. 



BY 



ROBERT GRANT, 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY, 
J. S. OF DALE, AND 

JOHN T. WHEELWRIGHT, 



" All the king's horses and all the king's mefi 
Coiddn^t put Humpty Diimpty up again.^^ 



NEW YORK: 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 

1884. 



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